jity  of  California 
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a 


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OF 

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OF  CALIFORNIA 

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SVr.ifh   2 


THE  STRONG  HOURS 


THE  STRONG  HOURS 


BY 

MAUD  DIVER 

AUTHOR  OF  "CAPTAIN  DESMOND,  v.c.,"  "DES 
MOND'S  DAUGHTER,"   "UNCONQUERED,"  ETC. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

THE  RIVERSIDE  PRESS  CAMBRIDGE 


yMglp,  BY  MAUD  DIVER 
ALX  RIGHTS  KEbEKVED 


TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  OLD*' FRIEND  AND  CRITIC 
JOHN  SCOTT  STOKES 

In  early  years  he  was  Secretary  and  Librarian  to  John  Henry 
Newman;  and  from  contact  with  that  great  Englishman  he 
acquired  his  delicate  sense  of  what  is  genuine  in  Literature,  his 
rare  knowledge  of  English  letters,  which  was  ever  at  the  service 
of  his  intimate  friends,  among  whom  I  was  proud  to  be  num 
bered.  For  many  years  a  member  of  the  Savage  Club,  it  was 
there  —  through  my  father  —  that  he  came  into  personal  touch 
with  my  early  work.  From  that  time  forward,  he  was  my  most 
constant  reader,  my  most  devoted,  yet  candid,  critic;  and  my  debt 
to  him,  in  every  way,  is  far  greater  than  this  small  tribute  can 
adequately  express. 

M.  D. 


1705460 


"His  spirit's  meat 

Was  freedom ;  and  his  staff  was  wrought 
Of  strength;  and  his  cloak  woven  of  thought." 

SWINBURNE 

"In  a  mighty  matter,  and  bearing  many  ways,  to 
judge  with  unswayed  mind,  this  is  a  hard  essay;  yet 
hath  some  ordinance  of  immortals  given  this  sea- 
defended  land  to  be  to  strangers  out  of  every  clime 
a  pillar  built  of  God." 

PINDAR 


CONTENTS 
PROLOGUE 


ONE  MERE  DAY 


BOOK  I 
BEYOND  THE  SKY  LINE  J9 

BOOK  II 
UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  59 

BOOK  III 
INTO  THE  DEEP  I29 

BOOK  IV 
SMOKE  AND  FLAME  233 


BOOK  V 
HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS 


BOOK  VI 
THE  PROUD  FUTURE  433 


THE  STRONG  HOURS 

PROLOGUE 
ONE  MERE  DAY 


THE  STRONG  HOURS 

PROLOGUE 

ONE  MERE  DAY 

CHAPTER  I 

The  cruellest  lies  are  often  told  in  silence. 

R.  L.  S. 

THE  April  sun  shone  full  upon  the  easterly  windows  of  Avon- 
leigh  Hall,  transfiguring  the  stern,  grizzled  face  of  the  house, 
where  Blounts  of  Avonleigh  had  lived  and  died  since  the  days 
of  Cceur  de  Lion;  caressing  it  with  light  and  warmth,  as  a  child 
caresses  the  face  of  an  old  man  to  make  him  smile  and  play  at 
being  young  again. 

And  the  house  responded  after  its  kind.  Its  rough  stones 
looked  a  few  shades  less  sombre  than  usual.  Golden  and  wine- 
coloured  leaf-buds  gleamed,  half-open,  on  the  thorny  traceries 
of  the  Gloire  de  Dijon  that  framed  the  three  tall  windows  of 
Lady  Avonleigh's  morning  room.  Under  the  low,  broad  ledge 
daffodils  made  stars  and  splashes  of  brightness;  and  the  cen 
turies-old  lawn,  across  the  gravel  pathway,  was  gay  with  grape 
hyacinth  and  blue  scilla.  The  breeze  brought  a  whiff  of  fresh- 
cut  grass  and  a  mowing  machine  purred  steadily  somewhere 
out  of  sight.  The  sun  —  that,  for  all  his  million  years,  alone 
possesses  the  secret  of  immortal  youth  —  was  luring  the  whole 
world  to  play  at  being  young  again  on  that  radiant  spring 
morning. 

Suddenly  there  broke  upon  the  stillness  a  patter  of  scurrying 
feet  followed  by  the  vision  of  a  slim  sturdy  figure,  in  a  brown 
jersey  suit,  that  dashed  out  of  the  shrubbery  and  sped  along  the 
gravel  path  toward  the  house.  Faster  and  faster  it  sped; 


4  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

shoulders  squared,  head  flung  back,  hair  flying,  the  small  blunt- 
featured  face  set  in  resolute  lines.  At  eight  years  old  it  is  a  very 
serious  matter  to  be  a  smuggler,  caught  red-handed,  fleeing  for 
dear  life  from  the  clutches  of  Outraged  Authority;  and  Derek 
was  always  terribly  in  earnest  over  the  game  of  the  moment. 

He  had  a  fair  start  of  Authority  in  the  person  of  a  tall  boy  in 
flannel  shirt  and  trousers,  who  came  loping  after  him  with  long 
strides.  This  was  young  Evan  Trevanyon  Blount,  heir  of 
Avonleigh;  —  a  lordly  schoolboy,  with  a  soul  above  childish 
games,  and  not  given  to  being  terribly  in  earnest  over  anything. 
He  had  revived  the  smuggler  drama  —  an  invention  of  old 
standing  —  because  he  had  nothing  better  to  do  and  because  it 
mildly  amused  him  to  work  Derek  up  over  it  and  give  the 
youngster  a  pommelling.  Not  that  he  had  an  ounce  of  the 
bully  in  his  nature;  but  it  had  been  rubbed  into  him  at 
school  that  his  own  early  sufferings  were  entirely  for  his  good: 
and  it  occurred  to  him  that  Derek  might  as  well  have  a  little 
benefit  of  that  kind  in  advance.  It  enlivened  the  holidays 
and  it  didn't  hurt  the  'kid.' 

His  long  legs  were  gaining  steadily,  now,  on  the  short  ones 
ahead  of  him;  and  Derek  could  feel  his  heart  beating  all  over 
his  body.  As  he  came  level  with  the  morning-room  windows  a 
wild  inspiration  flashed  through  him.  If  he  could  touch  wood 
it  was  'sanctuary.'  That  was  one  of  the  unwritten  laws  of  the 
game.  With  a  sudden  swerve  to  the  right,  and  a  flying  leap, 
he  landed  on  the  broad  window-sill  —  breathless,  but  safe. 

There  he  stood  in  full  sunlight,  clutching  the  woodwork  with 
one  very  square  brown  hand;  his  resolute  lower  lip  thrust  out; 
his  eyes  screwed  up  against  the  glare  so  that  they  almost  van 
ished  under  the  thick  straight  line  of  his  brows  —  a  sufficiently 
engaging  picture  of  half-nervous  defiance  to  soften  any  heart 
but  that  of  a  brother  who  was  simply  enjoying  the  joke. 

"You  can't  touch  me  now,  Van.  Yah!  —  I'm  sanctuary!" 
he  cried  as  the  older  boy  stood  regarding  him  out  of  a  pair  of 
cool  grey  eyes. 

"Can't  I?"  Van  drawled,  looking  him  up  and  down  with 
the  air  of  an  ogre  mentally  scrunching  the  bones  of  his  pre- 


ONE    MERE    DAY  5 

destined  prey.  It  was  a  horrid  moment  for  Derek;  but  his 
faith  in  Van  was  absolute  and  he  stood  his  ground. 

"You  know  you  can't  —  on  your  honour,"  he  retorted  with 
an  out-thrust  of  his  chin ;  and,  confident  in  security,  the  tip  of  a 
tongue  appeared  between  his  teeth.  The  joy  it  was,  and  the 
relief,  even  for  a  few  moments  to  be  master  of  the  situation! 
Yet,  come  what  might  in  the  way  of  retribution,  he  would 
rather  be  the  smuggler  than  Outraged  Authority  any  day. 

"Well,  as  to  that,"  Van  answered  suavely,  "you  can't  stand 
hanging  on  to  the  window  frame  forever;  and  when  I  do  get  at 
you  I'll  scalp  you  extra  for  your  cheek.  I'm  in  no  hurry.  I 
can  wait!" 

And  seating  himself  on  the  grass,  hands  clasped  round  his 
knees,  he  proceeded  to  stare  his  small  brother  out  of  counte 
nance. 

As  a  mere  game  this  was  well  enough  and  Derek  could  brazen 
it  out  with  the  best.  But  he  was  not  playing  a  game.  He  was 
acting  a  thrilling  drama.  It  was  not  Van  who  sat  there  staring 
at  him.  It  was  Authority,  waiting  to  pounce  on  him,  to  inflict 
punishment,  merciless  and  condign.  He  had  been  'scalped' 
once  this  morning,  without  the  extra,  and  had  no  ambition  to 
repeat  the  experience.  The  joy  of  mastery  had  been  brief  in 
deed.  He  could  not  have  explained  why,  but  he  felt  ensnared; 
held  fast  by  those  immovable  eyes.  Queer  small  sensations 
began  to  creep  down  his  spine.  Stubborn  though  he  was  by 
nature,  and  no  coward,  he  began  to  wonder  how  much  longer  he 
could  hold  out. 

A  bold  attempt  to  spring  clear  of  Van  and  dash  off  again 
seemed  his  only  chance  of  salvation.  But  though  he  had  re 
gained  his  breath  a  little,  he  frankly  shirked  the  risk  and  the 
terror  of  it.  Still  —  even  if  things  were  hopeless  he  was  not 
going  to  let  himself  be  tamely  caught;  he,  Dirk  of  the  Red 
Hand,  the  terror  of  the  country-side!  As  mere  Derek  Blount 
he  had  no  business  to  be  standing  there  with  muddy  boots  on 
the  window-sill  of  his  mother's  morning  room.  If  she  or  any 
one  else  came  in,  an  undignified  scolding  would  be  his  portion. 
He  hovered,  in  very  truth,  between  the  devil  and  the  deep  sea. 


6  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

The  only  alternative  to  a  daring  outward  leap  was  sudden 
and  swift  retreat  through  the  room  behind  and  up  the  wide 
staircase  to  the  schoolroom ;  for,  according  to  the  old  rule  of  the 
game,  if  he  could  reach  the  schoolroom  unscathed  he  was  en 
titled  to  free  pardon.  Both  the  morning  room  and  the  staircase 
were  forbidden  ground  and  the  mud  of  the  shrubbery  was  on  his 
boots.  But  the  element  of  risk  made  retreat  seem  less  igno 
minious  ;  and  the  small  person  on  the  window-ledge  had  a  good 
deal  of  pride  in  him,  though  he  had  not  yet  learnt  to  call  it  by 
that  name. 

Almost  before  Van  was  aware  of  it,  he  had  taken  a  backward 
leap  and  was  making  for  the  door,  fortified  by  a  desperate  re 
solve  to  lock  it  behind  him. 

Van,  a  punctilious  person,  lost  a  few  seconds  by  hurriedly 
wiping  his  shoes  on  the  grass.  But  he  could  be  swift-footed 
when  he  chose  and  the  Kid's  unexpected  move  had  revived  the 
excitement  of  pursuit. 

Halfway  across  the  room  he  pounced  on  Derek  and  pinioned 
him  in  a  grasp  that  was  firmly  unyielding. 

''Now  then,  young  'un,  you  may  as  well  throw  up  the  sponge," 
he  said  with  his  slight  drawl.  "  Give  in  with  a  good  grace  and 
it'U  be  the  better  for  you." 

"Shan't!"  Derek  flashed  out  furiously,  and  fought  like  a  wild 
thing  so  far  as  his  imprisoned  elbows  would  allow. 

He  was  hopelessly  at  a  disadvantage,  but  pride  and  temper 
were  now  thoroughly  aroused.  He  cared  nothing  for  the  result. 
He  would  die  fighting.  Foot  by  foot  Van  dragged  his  struggling 
victim  back  towards  the  window. 

"  Give  over,  you  little  fool,  and  come  out  of  this.  We've  no 
business  hi  here,  you  know,"  he  said  at  last,  by  way  of  bringing 
the  boy  to  his  senses. 

There  was  no  ansv;er.  For  a  moment  Derek  ceased  to 
struggle;  and  Van  —  who  disliked  all  undue  exertion  —  slightly 
relaxed  his  grip. 

It  was  enough.  With  a  fierce  unexpected  twist,  Derek  freed 
himself  and  fled  behind  a  table  on  which  stood  a  tall  Satsuma 
vase. 


ONE    MERE    DAY  7 

"Pax  —  I'm  safe!"  he  panted,  clutching  'wood'  with  both 
hands. 

But  this  time  Van  was  angry  —  a  rare  event. 

"You  deliberately  hoaxed  me,  you  little  devil.  Nothing'll 
save  you  now." 

With  due  caution  he  slipped  a  long  arm  half  round  the  table. 
Derek  jerked  himself  away,  still  clinging  to  it,  and  giving  it  so 
sharp  a  tilt  that  the  vase  fell  crashing  to  the  ground. 

Disaster  brought  them  to  their  senses.  The  game  was  for 
gotten  in  face  of  a  reality  that  rilled  them  both  with  dismay. 

Derek  stook  motionless  gazing  at  the  murdered  treasure. 
Tears  pricked  his  eyeballs.  Apart  from  fear  of  consequences,  he 
felt  —  as  always  —  a  queer  pang  at  sight  of  any  newly  broken 
object.  He  was  also  thinking  ruefully  that  'things'  always 
went  against  him.  If  it  was  possible  to  get  himself  into  trouble 
he  never  missed  the  chance.  But  this  was  a  terribly  serious 
business;  only  the  knowledge  that  Van  shared  the  responsibility 
gave  him  any  hope  that  justice  might  be  tempered  with  mercy. 

Dimly,  through  the  confusion  in  his  brain,  he  heard  his  brother 
remark  with  quiet  emphasis:  "Well  —  you've  jolly  well  done 
for  yourself  this  time";  saw  him  retreat  towards  the  window; 
wondered,  with  a  mental  shiver,  must  they  "go  and  tell  ..." 

Then  the  door  of  the  room  opened  and  their  mother  stood 
before  them,  very  tall  and  slender  in  a  grey  gown  with  a  flounce 
that  trailed  upon  the  ground  lending  her  added  height  and 
dignity.  One  saw  at  a  glance  whence  Van  derived  his  natural 
grace,  his  good  looks  and  his  cool  grey  eyes. 

"Boys!  What's  the  meaning  of  this?"  she  exclaimed/look 
ing  from  one  to  the  other  —  Van,  placid  and  detached,  half 
seated  on  the  window-sill;  Derek  with  flushed  cheeks  and  bright 
eyes,  obviously  guilty,  standing  by  the  slaughtered  vase. 

The  sharp  note  of  reproach  in  her  voice  struck  at  his  heart. 
In  a  swift  impulse  of  remorse  he  ran  to  her,  unmindful  of  muddy 
boots  upon  her  trailing  gown  —  they  trailed  copiously  that 
year  —  and,  being  Derek,  he  promptly  stumbled  on  a  hidden 
foot. 

Before  a  contrite  word  could  be  spoken,  he  found  himself 


8  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

being  scolded  for  clumsiness,  his  besetting  fault.  The  words 
he  had  meant  to  speak  fled  from  his  brain.  The  injured  toe  and 
muddied  flounce  aggravated  Lady  Avonleigh's  vexation  at  his 
original  offence;  and  there  were  tell-tale  marks  on  the  carpet. 

"Really,  Derek,  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  you,"  she  con 
cluded  with  a  sigh  of  weary  impatience.  "You  don't  even  try 
to  improve.  Direct  disobedience  to  orders  and  my  valuable 
vase  smashed  —  " 

"C-can't  it  be  mended?"  the  boy  stammered,  gulping  down 
his  tears. 

"It  doesn't  look  much  like  it,"  his  mother  answered,  un 
moved.  "And  it  wouldn't  be  the  same  thing  if  it  could.  Be 
sides —  you've  no  business  to  be  in  here  at  all.  You  know 
that  perfectly  well." 

"I  —  er  —  I  didn't  really  mean  to  come  in  here,"  Derek 
plunged  —  in  a  desperate  attempt  at  self-defence.  "It  was  a 
game  .  .  .  and  Van  —  I  — " 

He  broke  off,  too  loyal  to  implicate  his  brother,  taking  it  for 
granted  that  Van  would  help  him  out  and  shoulder  his  share  of 
the  disaster. 

Van,  however,  still  sat  there  in  the  window  swinging  one  leg, 
looking  distressed  and  sympathetic,  but  entirely  aloof.  And 
in  response  to  Derek's  appealing  glance  he  said  never  a  word. 
Nor  did  his  mother  dream  of  questioning  him.  In  her  eyes 
Van  was  sacrosanct.  He  could  not  possibly  have  any  con 
nection  with  breakages  and  mud-marks  on  the  carpet.  Things 
of  that  kind  were  Derek's  specialities;  and  they  kept  Lady 
Avonleigh  in  a  chronic,  half-despairing  state  of  annoyance  with 
her  younger  boy,  who  seemed  to  have  nothing  of  herself  in  his 
composition. 

Van's  silence  fell  on  Derek's  heart  like  a  stone.  It  took  him 
several  seconds  to  grasp  all  it  implied;  and  while  he  floundered 
in  stormy  depths  of  bewilderment  and  protest,  his  mother  stood 
awaiting  further  explanation,  looking  down  upon  her  small  son 
with  curiously  little  of  sympathy  or  understanding  in  her  heart. 
It  is  to  be  feared  that,  just  then,  the  broken  vase  affected  her 
more  than  the  child's  very  evident  confusion  and  remorse. 


ONE    MERE   DAY  9 

"Well,  Derek?"  she  said  at  last. 

"I  —  I  can't  prop'ly  explain.  I'm  sorry,"  he  muttered  with 
out  looking  up:  and  it  is  just  possible  that  Van  felt  faintly 
remorseful  when  he  perceived  that  Derek  —  though  a  mere  kid 
—  knew  well  how  to  play  the  game.  But  the  meshes  of  his  own 
silence  entangled  him.  He  could  not,  now,  free  himself  without 
risk  of  falling  in  his  mother's  esteem,  a  risk  he  was  not  prepared 
to  take  for  the  pluckiest  kid  in  creation. 

And  Derek's  pluck  was  undeniable.  Outwardly  stoical,  in 
wardly  raging,  he  accepted  the  rest  of  his  scolding  and  his 
sentence  of  punishment  in  a  silence  that  simply  appeared  sullen 
and  tended  to  aggravate  his  sin.  It  was  hard  on  Derek,  who 
never  sulked,  that  his  face,  in  moments  of  intense  gravity,  had 
a  distinctly  sulky  look. 

He  would  be  in  disgrace  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  his  mother 
told  him  in  her  low  even  voice,  which,  to  Derek,  always  sounded 
beautiful,  even  when  pronouncing  judgment.  He  would  not 
come  down  to  the  dining-room  for  lunch.  He  was  to  stay  alone 
in  the  schoolroom  all  the  afternoon;  have  tea  there  by  himself 
and  go  to  bed  at  six.  He  would  not  be  locked  in.  He  was 
simply  put  on  his  honour.  At  least  Lady  Avonleigh  did  not 
make  the  mistake  of  distrusting  this  troublesome  rebel  of  her 
own  creating. 

"But  of  course,"  she  concluded  sternly,  "no  mere  punish 
ment  can  make  up  for  the  loss  of  my  beautiful  vase  —  a  piece 
of  rare  old  Japanese  china  — " 

This  was  too  much  for  Derek's  feelings.  "You  can  take  all 
the  three-pennies  out  of  my  money-box,  there's  quite  a  lot  there 
now,"  he  murmured  in  a  desperate  rush  that  failed  to  hide  the 
quiver  in  his  voice. 

That  unconscious  and  pathetic  touch  of  humour  might  well 
have  disarmed  a  sterner  monitor;  but  Lady  Avonleigh  —  un 
happily  for  herself  and  others  —  was  almost  impervious  to 
humour.  She  merely  saw,  in  Derek's  offer,  the  first  real  sign  of 
remorse;  and  her  voice  was  a  shade  gentler  as  she  said  with  be 
coming  gravity:  "My  dear  child,  I  wouldn't  dream  of  such  a 
thing.  Besides,  it  would  be  useless,  and  I  think  you  are  being 


io  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

sufficiently  punished  as  it  is.  Now  go  upstairs,  and  if  you  want 
me  to  believe  you  are  sorry,  try  —  for  once  —  to  do  exactly 
what  you  are  told." 

That  'for  once'  hurt  Derek  like  the  flick  of  a  whip.  With 
one  glance  in  Van's  direction,  he  went  out  of  the  room  —  no 
longer  Dirk  the  Red-Handed,  but  just  a  discomfited  small  boy, 
smarting  under  the  sting  of  injustice  and  his  brother's  utterly 
unexpected  desertion. 


CHAPTER  II 

She  who  slays,  is  she  who  bears  —  who  bears. 

ALICE  MEYNELL 

ALONE  up  in  the  schoolroom,  he  shut  the  door  upon  himself 
with  a  sort  of  tragic  deliberation,  and  scrambled  on  to  the  low 
polished  oak  cupboard  that  ran  round  the  bay  window,  forming 
a  wide  seat.  There,  huddled  together,  knees  drawn  up  to  his 
chin,  he  bowed  his  forehead  on  them  and  cried,  hot  passionate 
tears  that  seemed  as  if  they  would  never  come  to  an  end:  tears 
for  the  broken  vase,  for  his  mother's  distress,  for  the  discovery 
that  Van,  his  hero,  could  be  cowardly  and  mean  like  any  ordinary 
mortal;  and  not  least  for  his  own  persistent  ill-luck  and  the 
severe  punishment  meted  out  to  him  for  an  accidental  sin. 

To  do  Lady  Avonleigh  justice,  she  had  too  little  imagination 
to  realize  how  harsh  was  her  sentence  of  imprisonment  for  a 
creature  of  eight  years  old,  on  a  day  of  April  sun  and  wind. 
But  for  Derek,  the  real  tragedy  of  that  eventful  morning  was 
Van's  behaviour.  By  flagrant  disregard  of  the  unwritten  law, 
he  had  been  indirectly  responsible  for  the  disaster;  and,  in  the 
face  of  that  —  to  let  another  bear  all  the  blame!  .  .  . 

Loyal  little  soul  that  he  was,  Derek  would  never  have  believed 
it  possible.  He  could  scarcely  believe  it  now,  except  for  the  fact 
that  his  own  sensations  at  the  moment  were  too  painfully  vivid 
to  be  forgotten  —  or  readily  forgiven. 

Nor  was  he  alone  in  this  exalted  view  of  his  elder  brother. 
Faith  in  young  Evan  Blount  was  part  of  the  Avonleigh  creed. 
The  entire  household  revolved  round  him,  as  planets  round  the 
sun.  True,  there  were  heretics  among  them;  notably  Malcolm 
—  Viscount  Avonleigh's  land  agent  —  and  Mrs.  Consbigh,  the 
housekeeper;  but,  being  wise  in  their  generation,  they  revolved 
with  the  rest  and  kept  their  heresy  to  themselves. 


12 

Mrs.  Consbigh,  it  is  true,  made  no  secret  of  her  devotion  to 
Master  Derek :  and  she  accepted  —  as  part  of  the  boy's  inherent 
masculinity  —  the  fact  that  her  motherly  kindness  evoked 
curiously  little  response. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  the  surreptitious  affection  she 
lavished  on  him  emphasized  all  that  was  lacking  in  his  mother's 
rare  and  coveted  caresses.  Naturally  it  did  not  occur  to  Derek 
either.  He  felt  it  simply  —  with  a  child's  vague,  unerring  in 
stinct  for  matters  of  the  heart  —  as  one  of  the  many  bewilder 
ing  things  in  life  that  somehow'  hurt  you  and  you  couldn't  tell 
why.  There  were  moods,  as  he  grew  older,  when  he  almost 
hated  the  good  woman  who  gave  him,  out  of  her  large-hearted 
abundance,  that  which  he  craved  from  his  mother  and  from  no 
one  else  on  earth. 

And  to-day,  as  the  first  passion  of  grief  subsided  into  long, 
shivering  sobs,  the  fear  crept  in  that,  when  she  heard  of  his 
disgrace,  she  would  seek  him  out  and  try  to  comfort  him.  But 
in  the  main  his  thoughts  circled  round  Van,  his  shattered  idol, 
who  would  never  again  be  perfect  in  his  eyes.  Probably,  if  he 
cared  enough,  Van  would  manage  to  patch  things  up  in  his 
persuasive  fashion:  but  dimly  Derek  knew  that  within  himself 
something  had  been  broken  that  morning  quite  as  precious  as 
his  mother's  vase  and  as  impossible  to  mend.  .  .  . 

A  turn  of  the  door  handle  brought  back  the  dread  of  Mrs. 
Consbigh.  Hoping  she  would  think  he  was  asleep,  he  did  not 
i  stir  or  lift  his  head.  Then  with  a  shock  —  half  amazement, 
half  anger  —  he  realized  that  it  was  Van.  Still  he  did  not 
move.  What  right  had  Van,  after  basely  deserting  him,  to 
come  and  gloat  over  his  misery?  He  wished  now  that  he  had 
locked  himself  in. 

Van  paid  no  heed  to  his  silent  rebuff,  but  came  straight  to  the 
window-seat;  and  the  next  moment  Derek  felt  his  thick  shock 
of  hair  being  lightly  towselled  and  rubbed  'every  which  way' 
by  Van's  long  fingers.  Derek  set  his  teeth  and  remained 
motionless.  He  did  not  understand  that  Van,  by  coming  to 
him,  was  implicitly  confessing  himself  in  the  wrong. 

"I'm  scalping  you!    I  told  you  I  would!"  he  said  at  last  in 


ONE  MERE  DAY  13 

his  gentlest  voice,  so  like  his  mother's  that  it  went  straight  to 
Derek's  heart.  But,  in  his  childish  fashion,  he  was  inflexible. 
His  emotions  did  not  easily  flare  up  or  readily  subside.  Van  — 
being  pre-eminently  flexible  —  had  come  too  soon. 

"Oh  —  go  away!"  was  all  the  reponse  he  received  in  a  voice 
of  muffled  misery,  and  Derek  jerked  his  head  ungraciously 
from  under  those  caressing  fingers  that  could  neither  reach  nor 
heal  his  hidden  wound. 

Van  drew  himself  up.  "Thanks,"  he  said  coolly.  "I  think 
it  was  jolly  decent  of  me  to  come.  But  you're  the  most  obstinate 
little  beggar  in  creation.  If  you  weren't,  all  this  would  never 
have  happened.  You  deserved  it  —  for  hoaxing  me.  I  just  did 
it  to  punish  you." 

That  had  been  Van's  excuse  to  himself  for  a  slip  out  of  the 
straight  path  that  had,  in  point  of  fact,  been  simply  instinctive: 
and  it  was  significant  of  the  vital  difference  between  the  brothers, 
that  the  elder  could  not,  or  would  not  see  —  what  the  younger 
vaguely  felt  —  that  any  reference  to  his  own  deserts  was  alto 
gether  wide  of  the  mark. 

"Oh,  Van"  —  he  flung  up  his  head  in  sheer  desperation,  and 

pushed  back  the  dark  hair  from  his  forehead  —  "that's  not  fair 

-  you  can't  —  just  because  of  me.     If  I'm  obst'nate,  you  can 

hammer  me.     But  you  can't  .  .  .  break  rules  and  .  .  .  sort  of 

.  .  .  half  tell  lies  ..." 

It  was  a  lifelong  drawback  for  Derek  that  he  could  never  call 
a  spade  an  agricultural  implement:  and  at  that  ill-judged  word 
Van  drew  himself  up  sharply,  a  queer  glint  in  his  eyes. 

"Confound  your  cheek!"  he  said;  he  was  rather  proud  of  the 
new  swear.  "D'you  think  I  came  here  to  be  lectured  by  a  chit 
of  an  infant  like  you?  I  just  came  to  cheer  you  up  because  you 
got  rather  more  than  you  bargained  for;  but  I  shan't  trouble  to 
come  again,  and  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  own  company  for  the 
whole  afternoon."  But  as  he  turned  to  go  a  thought  struck  him. 
"You  don't  go  blabbing  about  this,  mind  —  to  old  Con  or  Ina." 

Ina  was  the  sister  who  came  between  them. 

"'Course  not,"  Derek  retorted  with  scornful  emphasis.  "/ 
wouldn't  tell  any  one  —  never!" 


I4  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

The  patent  sincerity  of  that  asseveration  softened  the  flexible 
Van.  "You're  a  game  little  beggar,  Derek,"  he  said  with  his 
drawl.  Then  after  a  thoughtful  investigation  of  his  pockets. 
"Have  some  choc.  Give  you  something  to  do." 

He  proffered  a  whole  stick  of  Suchard.  Such  unwonted  gen 
erosity  might  have  savoured  of  bribery  but  for  Derek's  proud 
confidence  that  Van  did  not  doubt  his  word.  Probably  the 
elder  boy  himself  hardly  realized  that  his  impulse,  like  his  visit, 
was  prompted  by  an  uneasy  conscience. 

In  any  case,  a  stick  of  Suchard  was  irresistible.  It  could 
comfort  if  it  could  not  heal.  Derek  held  out  his  hand.  "  Thank 
you,  Van,"  he  said  gravely. 

Van  deposited  his  peace  offering,  and  for  a  moment  his  fingers 
closed  over  Derek's  open  palm. 

"You're  too  much  in  earnest  over  things,  little  'un,"  he  said 
lightly.  "You  must  get  the  better  of  that  or  you'll  have  a 
rotten  time  at  school." 

And  Derek  was  left  alone  to  digest,  at  leisure,  that  sagacious 
piece  of  advice. 

The  upper  housemaid,  who  had  removed  the  fragments  from 
the  morning  room,  brought  him  his  lunch.  Her  attempt  to 
convey  mute  sympathy  was  baulked  by  Derek,  who  looked 
steadily  out  of  the  window  till  he  heard  the  door  close  behind 
her. 

Mrs.  Consbigh  appeared  later  with  an  offering  of  dried  figs, 
and  was  not  to  be  evaded  by  such  simple  means.  Besides  — 
Derek  had  a  pronounced  weakness  for  dried  figs,  as  the  good 
soul  very  well  knew.  She  was  a  spacious,  deep-breasted  woman, 
with  a  frame  as  large  as  her  heart  and  a  rather  gruff  voice  that 
was  a  sore  trial  to  her  because  it  'went  against'  her  with  children; 
a  natural-born  mother  of  men,  which  could  not  be  said  of  her 
mistress. 

"In  trouble  again,  are  you,  my  lamb?"  she  greeted  him, 
essaying  a  sympathetic  note  that  only  made  her  voice  sound 
huskier  than  ever.  "Well,  well,  we're  all  mortial,  and  accidents 
do  happen  to  the  best  of  us.  You  take  it  like  a  man  an'  the 
worst'll  soon  be  over." 


ONE  MERE  DAY  15 

Derek  nodded  —  quite  unconvinced.  For  him  the  five  hours 
that  loomed  between  dinner  and  bedtime  seemed  an  eternity. 
But  if  Mrs.  Consbigh's  philosophy  was  unconvincing,  her  figs 
were  a  very  present  help  in  trouble.  Derek  privately  resolved 
to  eke  them  out  as  long  as  possible  by  taking  small  bites  and 
counting  his  '  chews '  like  a  certain  famous  old  gentleman  whose 
name  he  had  forgotten. 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  them,  you  know,"  he  murmured  with 
his  mouth  full.  "Because  —  it  was  very  bad.  It  can't  be 
mended,  Mother  said." 

Mrs.  Consbigh  sighed.  "Ah,  that's  a  pity.  Still  —  there's 
lots  of  things  broken  in  this  world,  without  intention,  that  can't 
be  mended;  more  vallible,  too,  than  a  vawse.  You'll  learn  that, 
my  pretty,  one  o'  these  days." 

This  time  Derek's  nod  was  charged  with  conviction  and  a 
touch  of  tragic  self-importance;  but  he  consoled  himself  with 
another  bite  of  his  fig. 

Mrs.  Consbigh  lingered,  reluctant  to  leave  him.  She  strolled 
towards  the  window  and  stood  looking  out.  Derek  watched  her 
uneasily.  She  ought  not  to  be  there.  Solitary  confinement 
was  his  sentence,  and  he  was  to  try  and  do,  'for  once,'  exactly 
what  he  had  been  told.  Also  she  was  interfering  with  the  plan 
to  count  his  'chews.' 

"How  long  have  you  to  stay  here?"  she  asked  suddenly,  and 
Derek's  face  clouded.  He  resented  the  painful  question. 

"Till  six  o'clock.    And  then  —  I'm  to  go  to  bed." 

Mrs.  Consbigh  stifled  something  that  sounded  like  "Horrid 
shame!"  Aloud,  she  said  again  —  "It'll  soon  be  over.  Have 
you  got  a  nice  tale  to  read?  " 

"I've  got  my  Hans  Andersen."  A  pause.  Derek  grew  still 
more  uneasy:  and  at  last  he  spoke. 

"Please,  Mrs.  Con  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  you  mustn't  be  here. 
Mother  would  be  vexed.  I've  got  to  stay  quite  alone  and  .  .  . 
do  what  I'm  told." 

That  was  too  much  for  Mrs.  Consbigh.  She  turned  and 
swept  towards  him. 

"  Oh,  bless  your  little  heart ! "    And  to  his  unspeakable  amaze- 


1 6  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

ment  —  faintly  tinged  with  wrath  —  she  flung  her  arms  round 
him  and  kissed  the  top  of  his  head. 

"  You  shan't  get  into  any  further  trouble  through  your  old 
Con.  But  I'll  bring  you  something  for  tea,"  she  assured  him, 
as  she  went  out. 

With  the  help  of  the  figs  and  the  chocolate  and  Hans  Andersen 
the  interminable  afternoon  dragged  itself  to  an  end.  The  gar 
den  below  him  was  full  of  sunshine  and  song;  but  the  world 
seemed  utterly  empty  of  people.  Van,  having  salved  his  con 
science  with  a  gift,  had  gone  out  riding  with  his  father;  and  not 
even  an  under-gardener  came  within  Derek's  range  of  vision. 
He  tried  to  fancy  he  was  Dirk  the  Red-Handed,  in  gaol,  looking 
out  for  his  accomplice  to  help  him  to  escape.  But  the  game  had 
quite  lost  its  hold  on  him.  He  felt  he  would  never  want  to 
play  it  again.  .  .  . 

At  tea-time  Mrs.  Consbigh  reappeared  with  two  sugared 
cakes.  But  on  this  occasion  she  did  not  linger:  nor  did  she  out 
rage  his  dignity  by  further  caresses. 

Punctually  at  six,  the  young  governess  who  taught  him  and 
Ina  came  and  fetched  him  to  bed.  When  that  melancholy  rite 
was  over,  she  shut  out  the  friendly  daylight  with  blinds  and 
curtains  and  left  him  with  the  pious  hope  that  he  would  be  a 
'better  boy  to-morrow.' 

She  was  not  sympathetic.  He  disliked  and  defied  her;  and 
she  had  endured  a  good  deal  at  his  hands.  He  was  very  thank 
ful  to  be  rid  of  her;  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  being  left  alone  in 
the  dark,  horribly  wide-awake,  was  the  worst  part  of  his  pun 
ishment. 

Who  —  except  a  dog  —  could  be  expected  to  go  to  sleep  at 
six  o'clock? 

In  the  hope  of  inducing  weariness,  he  screwed  up  his  eyes 
tight;  because  the  sooner  sleep  came,  the  sooner  it  would  be  to 
morrow.  But  after  five  minutes  of  vigorous  screwing  he  only 
felt  more  wide  awake  than  before.  Evidently  sleep  could  not 
be  wooed;  it  must  be  waited  for.  And  as  he  lay  there  waiting, 
a  faint  hope  crept  into  his  heart  that  perhaps  his  mother  might 
come  up  to  tell  him  he  was  forgiven,  and  then  he  could  say 


ONE  MERE  DAY  17 

properly  how  sorry  he  had  been  all  along.  It  would  be  easier  in 
the  dark  if  she  was  holding  his  hand.  And  supposing  she  did 
come  .  .  .  and  found  him  asleep — ! 

The  fear  of  that  calamity  banished  all  attempts  to  coax 
weariness.  He  lay  strained  and  tense,  his  eyes  wide  open,  his 
ears  alert  to  catch  the  first  sound  of  her  footsteps:  while  she, 
downstairs,  sat  in  her  favourite  arm-chair,  by  the  freshly  lit 
fire,  reading  a  novel. 

She  had  been  writing  letters  till  after  six;  and  in  signing  the 
last  but  one,  a  vague  idea  of  going  up  to  see  Derek  had  crossed 
her  mind.  She  was  not  one  of  those  mothers  who  make  a  regu 
lar  rule  of  the  good-night  function  either  from  duty  or  from  a 
natural  impulse  of  love.  Only  with  her  first-born  it  had  been  a 
matter  of  course;  and  when  he  grew  too  old  for  it,  she  became 
careless;  simply  followed  the  mood. 

To-night,  for  obvious  reasons,  Derek  had  intruded  once  or 
twice  upon  her  thoughts.  After  all,  he  had  been  punished 
severely  and  had  taken  it  well.  Hence  the  impulse  to  go  up 
and  see  him.  But  that  last  letter  had  driven  it  from  her  mind, 
and  the  sight  of  her  novel  lying  open  at  a  critical  point  in  the 
tale,  had  completed  her  oblivion  of  the  troublesome  small  son, 
who  was  so  curiously  like  his  Scottish  grandmother  that  at 
times  he  scarcely  seemed  her  own. 

Half  an  hour  later,  in  a  pause  at  the  end  of  a  chapter,  she 
suddenly  remembered  him  again.  Perhaps  the  intensity  of 
his  longing  found  its  way,  by  some  mysterious  process,  into  her 
brain. 

She  glanced  at  the  clock  and  suffered  a  passing  twinge  of  self- 
reproach.  "Too  late  now,"  she  decided,  half  sorry,  half  re 
lieved;  for  she  was  very  comfortable  and  not  strong  and  she 
hated  stairs.  He  probably  had  not  expected  her,  and  by  now 
he  would  be  fast  asleep.  Not  for  a  moment  did  she  suppose 
that  the  morning's  disaster  had  made  any  deep  impression  on 
him.  He  was  not  sensitive  like  her  dear  Van  — 

And  she  went  on  reading  till  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner. 

Derek  —  still  lying  tense  and  alert  —  heard  the  tap- tap  of 
her  heels  when  she  reached  the  polished  first-floor  landing  and 


i8  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

his  heart  thumped  jerkily  in  expectation.  But  the  sound  re 
treated —  then  ceased  abruptly,  and  he  knew  he  was  either 
forgotten  or  not  forgiven  — 

A  feeling  of  utter  loneliness  swept  through  him.  He  longed 
to  spring  out  of  bed  and  run  down  to  her  room  and  pour  out  all 
that  was  in  his  heart.  But  she  was  so  much  a  goddess,  so  little 
a  mother  to  him,  that  he  did  not  dare.  Instead  he  found  sobs 
coming  thick  and  fast.  Too  proud  to  let  them  be  heard,  he 
burrowed  under  the  bedclothes,  stuffed  the  sheet  into  his 
mouth,  and,  when  passion  had  subsided,  quietly  cried  himself 
to  sleep. 


BOOK  I 
BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE 


BOOK  I 
BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE 

CHAPTER  I 

Deep  in  the  man  sits  fast  his  fate, 
To  mould  his  fortunes,  mean  or  great : 
Or  say,  the  foresight  that  awaits 
Is  the  same  genius  that  creates. 

EMERSON 

IT  was  a  mild,  blustering  afternoon  of  September;  the  face  of 
the  sky  moody  and  variable  like  the  face  of  a  spoilt  child. 
Clouds  scudded  across  the  blue,  and  a  sharp  squall  of  rain 
dashed  petulantly  against  the  windows  of  the  Southampton 
express.  Before  the  burst  of  temper  was  well  over,  the  sun 
flashed  through  a  rift  and  away  across  the  heather  there  sprang 
a  rainbow. 

Bright  against  lowering  clouds,  it  melted  away  into  a  pine- 
wood  that  gloomed  between  moor  and  sky.  The  whole  spacious 
landscape  throbbed  with  light  and  colour.  Nature,  in  her 
most  enchanting  mood,  seemed  challenging  that  train-load  of 
human  restlessness  to  be  unaware  of  her  surpassing  beauty. 
But  for  the  most  part  their  eyes  were  holden,  from  habit,  or 
glued  to  the  printed  page. 

Happily  there  are  always  exceptions.  One  of  them,  on  this 
occasion,  was  a  young  man  who  occupied  the  corner  seat  of  a 
second-class  carriage.  His  appearance  proclaimed  him  a  dev 
otee  of  the  road.  The  grey-green  Norfolk  coat,  though  of 
good  parentage,  was  shabby  to  a  degree.  The  pockets  bulged, 
the  elbows  were  rubbed,  and  a  leather  button  was  missing. 
Worse  still,  its  air  of  well-bred  vagabondage  clashed  outrage 
ously  with  a  pau:  of  new  grey  flannels  very  vilely  cut,  without 
even  a  waistcoat  to  modify  the  effect.  Of  these  distressful 
details  the  wearer  seemed  serenely  oblivious;  and  that  trifling 


22  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

fact  bespoke  breeding  as  plainly  as  the  repose  of  his  square 
sunburnt  hands  bespoke  strength.  His  face  was  noticeable, 
without  any  claim  to  good  looks.  There  was  latent  power  in  the 
modelling  of  the  broad  brow  and  dark,  uncovered  head;  in  the 
blunt  nose  and  slightly  aggressive  lower  lip.  But  it  was  the 
eyes  —  clear  and  direct  under  eave-like  brows  —  that  caught 
the  attention  even  of  casual  observers ;  so  that  those  who  looked 
once  were  apt  to  turn  and  look  again. 

For  the  face  of  that  ill-dressed  young  Englishman  was  still, 
in  essence,  the  face  of  the  boy  who  had  stood  in  the  morning 
room  window,  some  fourteen  years  ago,  defying  Outraged 
Authority  to  the  knife.  In  detail,  certain  lines  of  character 
had  been  emphasized  and  the  soft  contours  of  childhood  chiselled 
away.  His  eyebrows  made  a  thicker  smudge  across  his  fore 
head.  His  nose  was  more  definitely  square  at  the  tip;  the  dent 
between  mouth  and  chin  was  sharper,  the  jaw  more  clearly 
defined.  The  face  still  looked  a  little  sullen  in  repose;  still  lit 
up  astonishingly  when  he  smiled;  and  he  was  altogether  the  old 
Derek  in  his  attitude  towards  those  accidental  flannels  which, 
until  they  could  be  remedied,  could  at  least  be  ignored. 

For  the  most  part  he  devoted  his  attention  to  the  window  and 
sat  perfectly  still,  absorbed  in  the  passing  scene.  The  fact  that 
he  had  just  returned  from  a  nine  weeks'  pilgrimage  on  the  Con 
tinent  made  him  more  alive  than  usual  to  the  beauties  of  his 
own  land  on  this  day  of  peculiarly  English  mutability.  From 
the  moment  suburbs  loosened  then-  strangle-hold  on  the  country, 
and  disfigured  Surrey  shook  herself  free  from  encroaching  hordes, 
he  had  discarded  Punch  in  favor  of  pinewoods,  orange-tawny 
gravel  pits  and  amethystine  sweeps  of  ling  in  full  bloom.  Later, 
came  emerald  sweeps  of  meadow-land;  hawthorn  hedges  bright 
with  ripening  berries ;  a  farm  or  two,  a  townlet  and  a  golf  course. 
Then  more  heath  and  pinewoods,  as  the  express  dashed  through 
the  wild  waste  region  round  Aldershot,  the  scene  of  countless 
mimic  battles,  bloodless  victories,  and  invasions  repelled  — 

For  Derek  —  fresh  from  the  stark  grandeur  of  the  Dolomites 
and  the  oleographic  brilliance  of  Switzerland  in  summer  —  the 
charm  of  the  whole  misty  shifting  landscape  was  summed  up  in 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  23 

one  word  —  England.  What  a  mellow,  friendly  land  it  was! 
No  harsh  lines,  no  sharpness  of  contrast,  even  where  moor  and 
meadow  kissed  each  other.  A  lazy,  slow-moving,  comfort- 
loving  land?  Yes  —  on  the  surface.  Derek  frankly  admitted 
the  common  cry  of  England's  detractors;  and  remembering  the 
well-tilled  fields  of  France,  he  added,  on  his  own  account  —  an 
unproductive  land:  tragically  so,  for  the  country-side,  that  is 
the  true  England;  dangerously  so,  perhaps  —  ? 

And  where  lay  the  blame?  Derek,  with  the  enviable  assur 
ance  of  youth,  had  his  answer  ready  to  hand  —  Free  Trade  and 
the  Industrial  Vote.  As  the  younger  son  of  a  peer,  whose  be 
lief  in  the  land  was  no  barren  faith  apart  from  works,  he  had 
been  reared  in  close  touch  with  its  deliberately  neglected  prob 
lems.  Talk  at  Avonleigh  often  turned  upon  the  subject;  and 
Derek  was  a  born  listener.  Things  heard  left  a  deep  impression 
on  his  eager  brain:  and  now,  while  it  travelled  along  these 
familiar  lines,  his  attention  was,  for  the  first  time,  arrested  by 
the  Industrial  Vote  incarnate  that  flaunted  its  bank  account, 
so  to  speak,  under  his  challenging  gaze. 

Directly  opposite  him  sat  a  stout  woman,  expensively  up 
holstered,  clutching  a  restless  Pekinese  and  quieting  it,  at  in 
tervals,  with  macaroons.  A  purple  'lancer'  feather  careened 
high  above  her  hat;  and  her  plump  feet  were  mercilessly  com 
pressed  into  smart  patent  leather  shoes.  Beyond  her  more 
frankly  expansive  husband,  sat  two  young  men  of  much  the 
same  genus:  one  lean  and  pasty,  the  other  fleshy  and  pasty. 
Both  were  fitfully  studying  the  columns  of  a  leading  Radical 
journal.  Both  bore  the  stamp  of  the  counter  on  their  neat 
persons,  featureless  features  and  disjointed  chaff  with  a  couple 
of  girls  opposite,  who  were  sharing  a  box  of  chocolates  and  the 
doubtful  wit  of  'Society  Chatter.' 

To  Derek,  with  the  country-side  on  his  brain,  that  chance 
handful  of  town  products  strikingly  presented  the  other  side  of 
the  shield.  These,  and  hundreds  like  them,  were  the  gifts  of 
Industrialism  to  England.  That  they  and  their  kind  might 
increase  and  multiply,  the  town  was  sitting  every  year  more 
heavily  on  the  country's  chest  .  .  . 


24  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

At  this  point  he  checked  a  certain  tendency  to  lapse  into  the 
leading  article  vein;  the  dire  result  of  being  very  young  and 
very  much  in  earnest:  and  it  was  then  that  he  discovered  the 
girl  in  the  far  corner,  next  to  the  fleshy  and  pasty  young  man. 

There  was  nothing  very  conspicuous  about  her,  except  her 
conspicuous  unlikeness  to  the  others.  Her  gloved  hands  were 
folded  on  a  book;  and  as  she  looked  persistently  out  of  the 
window  he  had  little  more  than  a  profile  view  of  her  face.  Not 
exactly  pretty,  was  his  first  thought;  but  emboldened  by  her 
absorption,  he  looked  again.  She  had  moved  a  little  now. 
Her  eyes  were  lifted  watching  a  mass  of  luminous  cloud  —  a 
riot  of  high  lights  and  ink-grey  shadow  —  that  sailed  lordly  in 
the  blue.  His  impulse  to  look  again  had  no  connection  with 
such  obvious  items  as  a  small  straight  nose,  forehead  and  brows 
tenderly  curved,  or  the  touch  of  childlike  wonder  that  lightened 
her  serious  eyes.  It  was  something  about  her  whole  aspect; 
something  clear  and  swift  and  confident  without  a  shadow  of 
complacence.  Contrasted  with  the  three  full-blown  specimens 
of  middle-class  womanhood,  she  seemed  a  creature  of  another 
sphere.  She  wore  everything,  to  her  very  gloves,  with  a  dif 
ference;  and  the  colour  in  her  cheeks  was  not  the  wild-rose 
bloom  of  England,  but  the  deeper  carmine  of  the  south. 

"No  industrial  bank-book  there!"  thought  Derek;  and  a 
moment  later  he  was  jerked  violently  forward,  almost  into 
the  stout  lady's  arms.  The  train  had  stopped  with  a  jar  that 
quivered  through  all  its  amazed  and  startled  occupants.  The 
next  station  was  still  miles  away.  Every  one  sprang  up.  The 
young  men  emitted  pious  interjections;  the  stout  lady,  clutching 
her  treasure,  rushed  panic-stricken  to  the  farther  window;  hers 
being  blocked  by  Derek's  head  and  shoulders. 

All  along  the  line  a  score  or  so  of  other  heads  were  shot 
out:  but  their  owners  discovered  nothing  beyond  a  few  mildly 
astonished  cows  and  an  agitated  guard,  doing  his  official  best  to 
temper  agitation  with  dignity. 

"I  say,  guard,  what's  the  row?"  Derek  demanded  when  the 
man  came  within  earshot. 

"Some  one's  pulled  the  alarm  chain,  sir,"  was  all  the  answer 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  25 

he  got,  as  the  badged  and  belted  one  hurried  past  anticipating 
murder  or  outrage  at  the  very  least. 

"Alarm  chain,"  Derek  informed  his  fellow  passengers  over 
his  shoulder. 

As  he  spoke,  his  attention  was  attracted  by  a  bareheaded 
sailor,  three  windows  down,  very  young  and  very  pink  with 
repressed  excitement. 

"Please,  sir,  'twas  me,"  the  boy  called  out  eagerly  to  the 
approaching  guard. 

"Well  —  where's  the  bloke?  Out  with  him.  Look  sharp. 
She's  five  minutes  over  time  — " 

"Please,  sir  —  there  ain't  no  bloke."  The  boy's  voice  was  a 
shade  less  confident.  "It's  the  wind  that  done  it.  I  were 
just  a-takin'  a  squint  at  the  old  country  and  it  snatched  me 
cap  clean  off,  it  did.  A  brand- new  cap  it  was,  sir,"  he  added 
feelingly,  as  the  guard's  expression  awakened  a  dim  sense  of  the 
enormity  he  had  committed  —  and  anti-climax  was  complete. 

Shouts  of  laughter  rippled  along  the  train.  But  to  the 
guard  it  was  no  matter  for  mirth  that  the  sacred  South- 
hampton  express  should  be  held  up  by  an  infantile  blue 
jacket  who  had  lost  his  cap.  In  scathing  terms  he  explained 
to  that  preposterous  infant  that  the  London  and  South 
Western  Company  did  not  stop  their  trains  for  his  private 
convenience.  "And  maybe  you  'aven't  'appened  to  notice," 
he  concluded  with  fatherly  concern,  "that  there's  a  trifle  of 
five  pounds  penalty  for  this  sort  of  practical  joke.  Who's  yer 
'atter?" 

The  boy's  colour  ebbed  and  his  jaw  fell.  He  had  noticed 
nothing,  in  that  moment  of  distraction,  except  the  providential ; 
chain.  He  was  home  on  first  leave  since  joining  his  ship,  he 
explained  with  woefully  diminished  confidence.  And  no  self- 
respecting  sailor  could  knock  around  the  town  bareheaded. 
And  the  cap  was  brand-new.  And  he  hadn't  stopped  to 
think. 

"Well,  if  you  stop  to  jaw  now,  sonny,  you'll  lose  the  lot," 
the  man  interposed  in  a  kindlier  tone.  "Nip  out  and  back  like 
a  lightning  streak,  or  you'll  have  to  leg  it  — " 


26  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

But  the  infant  was  already  legging  it  for  dear  life,  cheered  as 
he  went  by  sympathetic  third-class  passengers. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  he  was  back  again,  the  costly  cap 
jammed  down  to  his  eyebrows;  and  what  breath  remained  in  his 
body  was  completely  taken  away  by  the  discovery  that  a  mirac 
ulous,  shabby-looking  '  gent '  had  dropped  from  heaven,  placated 
the  guard  and  relieved  him  of  that  staggering  fine  into  the 
bargain. 

His  mumbled  attempt  at  thanks  was  nipped  in  the  bud  by  a 
gruff,  "All  right,  old  chap.  Don't  fuss,"  from  the  boy  of  another 
world  who  was  only  a  few  years  his  senior;  and  before  he  sprang 
on  to  the  step  he  flung  a  daring  question  at  the  guard. 

"Please,  sir,  'oo  is  he,  sir?" 

"He's  the  Hon'able  Derek  Blount,  son  o'  Lord  Avonleigh  of 
these  parts.  You're  in  luck,  young  stiver.  Nip  up.  She's 
ten  minutes  over  time  now,  thanks  to  you." 

Derek,  meanwhile,  had  seen  the  magic  word  'smoking'  on 
the  window  next  his  own.  He  decided  to  enjoy  a  pipe  and 
rescue  his  belongings  at  Elverstone:  but  as  he  grasped  the  door 
handle,  he  found  himself  hailed  from  his  own  carriage  by  a  clear 
feminine  voice. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Blount,  you're  the  very  person  I  want  to  see! 
Do  please  come  back." 

That  amazing  invitation  came  from  the  girl  who  was  dif 
ferent.  He  had  seen  her  leaning  out  while  he  settled  matters 
with  the  guard.  There  was  no  time  for  surprise  or  argument. 
The  guard  had  raised  his  flag  and  swung  himself  on  to  the  train. 
It  started  with  a  jerk  just  as  Derek  transferred  his  grasp  to  the 
next  door  handle  and  sprang  in  —  mystified  exceedingly  and 
not  a  little  vexed  at  being  deprived  of  his  pipe. 

He  found  her  sitting  opposite  him,  a  little  flushed,  her  eyes 
alight. 

"I  must  apologize,"  she  said,  speaking  rather  rapidly,  with 
out  a  trace  of  shyness.  "  But  I  heard  your  name.  I'm  Jack's 
step-sister  —  so  you'll  understand." 

His  mystification  evaporated.  Jack  Burlton  had  been  the 
companion  of  his  trip. 


BEYOND   THE  SKYLINE  27 

"Oh,  then  you  are  Gabrielle  —  Miss  de  Vigne?"  he  said, 
puzzled  and  a  little  awkwardly. 

"Yes  —  I'm  Gabrielle,"  she  answered,  smiling:  and  fresh 
perplexity  assailed  him. 

"But  why  are  you  here?  I  thought  he  was  meeting  you  in 
town." 

"So  did  he,  poor  dear!  It's  very  distracting,  but  it  couldn't 
be  helped.  You  changed  your  dates,  you  see,  and  my  French- 
Canadian  cousins  in  Brittany  wired  that  I  must  join  them 
sooner  — 

"I  say  —  you're  actually  .  .  .  off,  now  —  to  Canada?" 
Derek  broke  in.  Concern  for  Jack  put  shyness  to  flight. 

"Practically  off." 

"And  Jack's  clean  missed  you?  I'm  awfully  sorry.  I'm 
afraid  it's  partly  my  fault  — " 

"I'm  afraid  it  is!"  she  agreed  sweetly.  "But  please  don't 
distress  yourself.  He'll  get  across  before  I  sail.  I've  left  a 
letter  with  instructions." 

Her  smiling  friendliness  and  her  intimate  connection  with 
Jack  made  him  almost  forget  she  was  a  stranger  and  a  charm 
ing  girl  to  boot.  He  usually  admired  the  last  from  a  very 
respectful  distance:  but  this  one  was  already  known  to  him  as 
"  Gay,"  the  daughter  of  Jack's  dead  mother  by  her  first  husband. 
Jack,  who  had  no  sisters,  was  devoted  to  her;  and  Derek's 
twinge  of  self-reproach  on  his  friend's  account,  helped  him  to 
forgive  her  for  depriving  him  of  a  smoke.  If  he  did  not  answer 
her  last  remark  it  was  only  because  the  counter-jumpers  and 
'Society  Chatter'  young  women  embarrassed  him  by  staring 
frankly  and  giggling  over  some  joke  that  might  or  might  not  be 
connected  with  Miss  de  Vigne's  unorthodox  behaviour.  He 
confounded  then"  impertinence.  Why  on  earth  couldn't  a  girl 
obey  a  natural  impulse  without  becoming  a  butt  for  then:  third- 
rate  humour?  Rather  than  cater  for  their  amusement  he  sat 
silent,  gazing  abstractedly  out  at  scurrying  trees  and  fields, 
recalling  the  keen-edged  joy  of  life  reduced  to  its  simplest 
elements.  .  .  . 

Very  soon  they  all  became  bored  and  returned  to  their  papers. 


28  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

The  young  woman  next  to  him  shut  her  eyes  and  seemed  to  fall 
asleep;  and  Derek  was  just  beginning  to  hanker  for  his  pipe 
when  the  girl's  head  lolled  sideways,  lower  and  lower.  He 
glanced  at  it  apprehensively  and  edged  nearer  the  window. 
Miss  de  Vigne's  eyes  caught  him  in  the  act  and  they  smiled. 

"It  is  odd,"  she  remarked,  "our  meeting  like  this,  when 
Jack's  plans  have  never  come  off." 

"My  fault  again!"  he  admitted  frankly.  "I've  always 
funked  Commem.  Not  my  line." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence;  then,  with  a  tentative  note 
in  her  voice,  she  asked:  "Did  you  merely  tramp  the  country?  Or 
did  you  try  and  get  at  the  peasants  —  the  people,  out  there?" 

"Oh,  we  tried  —  after  a  fashion  —  in  Public  School  German! 
But  we  weren't  fooling  round  on  a  'better  understanding' 
mission,  if  that's  what  you  mean?  " 

"You  sound  rather  scornful.  Have  you  no  faith  in  them?" 
she  asked,  an  anxious  crease  between  her  brows. 

Derek  shook  his  head.  "Not  a  shred  of  faith.  I  don't  say 
we're  not  sincere,  or  the  French  either.  But  the  sincerity  is 
as  one-sided  as  the  sort  of  bargains  that  spring  from  it.  Look 
at  the  Baghdad  line — "  Suddenly  he  became  aware  of  her 
distress.  "Have  you  been  reared  to  think  otherwise?"  he 
asked  in  a  changed  voice. 

"To  hope  otherwise,"  she  answered,  her  colour  rising  a  little. 
"You  see  —  Jack's  father  has  a  lot  of  German  friends  and 
business  connections,"  she  went  on,  turning  her  face  away 
from  inquisitive  eyes.  "He  thinks  very  highly  of  some;  too 
highly,  I'm  afraid.  In  fact,  that's  the  chief  thing  I  wanted 
to  see  Jack  about,  and  —  why  I  spoke  to  you.  All  this  summer, 
the  Schonbergs,  especially,  have  been  getting  more  and  more 
friendly,  and  —  it  bothers  me.  All  that's  most  French  in  me 
distrusts  that  man  by  instinct.  Dad  —  Mr.  Burlton  —  says 
it's  simply  prejudice.  He  may  be  right;  but  still — "  She 
was  silent  a  moment,  gazing  out  over  the  wide  sweep  of  open 
country,  her  small  even  teeth  compressing  her  lip.  Then  with 
a  quick  turn  of  her  head  she  looked  round  again  and  said  lightly: 
"I  don't  know  why  I'm  boring  you  like  this!" 


BEYOND   THE  SKYLINE  29 

Derek  wrinkled  his  brows:    "Does  it  worry  Jack  too?" 

"Badly." 

"  Odd  he's  never  mentioned  it.     Shall  I  say  anything  to  him?  " 

"Yes  —  do.  It'll  ease  his  mind,  now  he  hasn't  got  me  to 
ease  it  on!" 

Slackening  speed  warned  him  they  were  approaching  Elver- 
stone.  "I  get  out  here,"  he  said,  rising  as  the  train  slowed 
down.  He  pulled  his  modest  luggage  out  of  the  rack,  hesitated 
a  moment,  then  held  out  his  hand.  "Good-bye  —  good  luck! 
It's  a  great  country.  And  —  if  I  can  help  in  any  way  —  ?  " 

She  sighed.  "I  don't  think  any  one  can  —  or  I  wouldn't 
be  leaving  England." 

Then  he  sprang  on  to  the  platform  and  stood  there  a  few 
seconds  looking  absently  after  the  vanishing  train.  A  quite 
unexpected  adventure  that;  not  at  all  in  his  line. 

"Car's  a  bit  late,  sir,"  remarked  a  friendly  porter  who  had 
known  Derek  from  a  boy. 

"No  car  for  me,  James,"  he  said.  "They  don't  know  I'm 
coming." 

"Pleasant  surprise,  sir,  I'm  sure,"  purred  the  kindly  old 
man.  "Get  you  a  fly,  sir,  from  the  'Good  Intent'?" 

"No,  thanks.  I'd  rather  walk.  You  can  freeze  on  to  my 
rucksack  and  the  bag.  Send  'em  along  by  the  carrier  to 
morrow." 

He  dived  into  his  trouser  pocket  and  brought  out  a  shilling. 
"All  the  cash  I've  got  left!"  he  said;  "you're  welcome  to  it," 
and  passed  out  through  the  wooden  gate  into  the  familiar  road 
that  ran,  white  and  smooth,  over  High  Down,  through  Haddon 
Wood  and  Coombe  St.  Mary's,  to  Avonleigh  Hall.  Journeys 
and  adventures  were  over.  He  was  at  home. 


CHAPTER  II 

Between  the  born  adventurer  and  the  com 
munity  man,  there  is  a  great  gulf  fixed. 

TENNYSON  JESSE 

BY  this  time,  the  sun  definitely  had  the  best  of  it.  A  brisk 
south  wind  was  dispersing  the  last  stragglers  of  the  storm, 
splashing  the  uplands  of  High  Down  with  flying  shadows;  and 
away  on  the  crest  of  the  ridge,  a  coppice  of  larch  and  birch 
tossed  plume-like  boughs  against  the  sky.  On  the  left,  as  it 
were  in  the  shallow  dip  of  a  wave,  red  roofs  and  hayricks,  barns 
and  nibbling  sheep  basked  in  the  mellow  afternoon  lights. 
Derek,  steadily  breasting  the  hill,  knew  by  heart  every  line  and 
curve,  every  chimney-stack,  every  lone  tree  printed  darkly  upon 
the  sky.  It  was  more  to  him  than  a  happy  conjunction  of 
woods  and  hills  and  dwellings.  It  was  part  and  parcel  of  his 
inner  life. 

From  the  sunlit  ridge  he  swung  down  to  the  village  of  Coombe 
St.  Mary's,  that  had  dozed  unruffled  through  the  centuries, 
and  was  not  fully  awake,  even  now,  to  the  ominous  rumble  of 
machinery  in  the  North. 

Already  Derek  was  on  his  father's  land;  and  here  the  sense  of 
home  struck  deeper.  More  than  the  average  young  men  of  his 
age  and  station  he  had  genuinely  tried  to  make  friends  with 
those  most  inexpressive  of  all  human  creatures,  the  born  tillers 
of  the  soil.  Here  and  there  he  had  succeeded  better  than  he 
knew;  better  than  any  member  of  his  family  would  have  be 
lieved  possible.  For  he  had  a  knack  of  achieving  a  good  deal, 
while  apparently  doing  nothing  in  particular:  a  knack  very 
characteristic  of  his  race. 

On  the  hill  above  the  village  he  paused  and  looked  back  into 
the  sleepy  hollow  that  had  already  lost  the  sun.  He  could  see 
the  first  of  the  labourers  trailing  home  from  the  fields;  and, 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  31 

watching  them,  he  wondered  idly  which  groove,  after  all,  was 
deeper,  more  barren  of  healthy  human  vagaries  —  the  agricul 
tural  ruts  of  his  friends  down  there,  or  the  narrow  way  of  con 
vention  along  which  his  mother  and  Van  moved  with  such 
unerring  precision?  If  either  of  them  could  have  seen  him 
struggling  against  the  mighty  current  of  the  Yser,  for  the  sake 
of  a  bath  and  the  mere  sport  of  the  thing,  or  crouching  naked 
between  two  rocks  within  a  few  yards  of  clothed  and  spectacled 
propriety  — ! 

He  chuckled  to  himself  at  thought  of  the  shock  it  would  give 
them.  For  it  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  his  own  people 
knew  almost  as  little  of  the  real  Derek  as  he  himself  knew  of 
the  real  working  man.  If  home  relations  were  not  all  that  they 
might  have  been,  it  was  tacitly  assumed  to  be  Derek's  fault; 
and,  after  a  period  of  bitter  inward  rebellion,  he  had  arrived  at 
supposing  they  must  be  right.  Of  his  recent  trip  abroad  he  had 
told  them  little  or  nothing.  From  Oxford  he  had  written  that 
he  would  devote  the  long  vacation  to  a  walking  tour  abroad 
and  would  probably  be  home  about  the  middle  of  September. 
Since  then,  a  few  brief  letters  to  his  mother  and  an  occasional 
postcard  had  given  them  a  rough  idea  of  his  movements;  and 
that  was  all  they  knew  about  it :  —  all  they  were  ever  likely  to 
know. 

Sometimes,  in  a  regenerate  mood,  it  pained  him  to  realize 
how  increasingly  reticent  he  had  grown  about  himself  and  his 
doings.  But  his  mother's  vague,  polite  inquiries  were  not 
calculated  to  unloose  his  tongue;  and  Lord  Avonleigh  held  with 
Dr.  Johnson,  that  "questioning  is  not  a  mode  of  conversation 
among  gentlemen."  As  for  Van,  except  in  rare  moods  of  ex 
pansion,  he  was  frankly  bored  with  most  things  that  did  not 
directly  concern  himself. 

From  this  it  may  be  gathered  that  Derek,  at  two  and  twenty, 
was  still  too  square  a  peg  for  his  very  round  and  polished  hole; 
which  is  not  to  say  that  he  undervalued,  for  a  moment,  his 
goodly  heritage  of  fine  traditions  stretching  backward  through 
the  centuries.  But  those  very  traditions  involved  certain  lim 
itations  that  tended  to  hamper  his  choice  of  a  path  in  life. 


32  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

As  a  younger  son,  a  certain  amount  of  latitude  was  his;  and 
a  fourth  year  at  Oxford  was  still  on  the  cards.  Personally,  he 
was  in  no  hurry  for  the  decisive  plunge.  No  gusty  winds  of 
ambition  stirred  his  soul;  but  he  recognized  the  wisdom  of  his 
father's  insistence  on  a  definite  occupation  for  Van  and  a  defi 
nite  profession  for  himself. 

Already  his  supposed  indecision  had  caused  a  certain  amount 
of  home  friction.  Lord  Avonleigh  had  failed  to  divine  the 
cause;  and  Derek  himself  had  signally  failed  to  convey  any 
impression  of  his  complicated  state  of  mind.  Now,  after  three 
months,  presumably  devoted  to  consideration  of  his  future, 
decisions  would  be  expected  of  him  —  and  they  would  not  be 
forthcoming. 

That  consideration  cooled,  a  little,  the  glow  of  welcome  in  his 
heart  when  the  ivy-mantled  pillars  and  wrought-iron  gateway 
came  into  view.  A  narrower  entrance  near  the  lodge  stood 
open:  but  Derek  —  suddenly  conscious  of  his  own  shabbiness 
—  passed  it  by.  Skirting  the  stone  wall,  he  entered  the  Park 
through  an  iron-studded  door,  beloved  from  boyhood  for  its 
mediaeval  flavour.  It  opened  on  a  narrow  path  that  meandered 
Up  through  the  rising  sweep  of  land  and  finally  struck  into  the 
drive,  between  dense  ten-foot  hedges  of  yew,  close  to  the  house 
itself. 

Derek  sauntered  leisurely  through  that  scattered  company 
of  great  and  ancient  trees:  oaks  with  their  far-flung  boughs; 
beeches  with  boles  like  grey  satin  and  cascades  of  incomparable 
leafage  sweeping  almost  to  the  ground.  Often  and  often,  when 
the  hands  of  all  the  world  seemed  against  him,  a  small  lonely 
Derek  had  stolen  away  to  his  favourite  beech  tree,  as  to  a 
sanctuary.  There,  perched  hi  the  fork  of  a  friendly  bough, 
where  the  wrath  of  man  could  not  come  at  him,  he  had  shed 
his  'insect  miseries'  and  found  courage  to  return  to  the  dusty 
arena  of  the  nursery  and  the  schoolroom;  the  dense  stupidity 
of  grown-ups  who  either  could  not  or  would  not  understand. 
Derek  was  a  catholic  lover  of  trees;  but  the  beeches  stood  first 
hi  his  heart. 

Now  the  level  sun  struck  shafts  of  light  through  them  and 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  33 

stretched  out  to  interminable  lengths  their  prodigies  of  shade. 
In  the  distance  he  sighted  a  herd  of  deer  ambling  down  to  the 
lake;  and  the  little  wind  that  had  chilled  the  glow  within  him 
died  away.  He  felt  suddenly  eager  to  see  them  all  again  — 
especially  his  mother.  Absence  invariably  quickened  his  deep, 
natural  feeling  for  her;  and  he  had  never  quite  discovered  why 
it  evaporated  so  strangely  after  the  first  few  days  at  home  — 

Emerging  from  between  high  walls  of  yew,  he  came  full  upon 
the  house  —  a  stately  stone  facade  with  mullioned  windows  and 
a  square  tower  in  the  left  wing.  Ivy  grew  thick  on  the  tower; 
and  across  the  whole  wide  front  spread  the  tentacles  of  a  giant 
wistaria;  its  plume-like  foliage  softening  the  severities  of  the 
stern  old  place. 

Without  entering  the  house,  he  passed  through  the  con 
servatory  —  aglow  with  chrysanthemums  —  on  to  the  main 
lawn,  where  three  friendly  cedars  made  a  continent  of  shadow. 
The  lawn  itself  swept  on,  innocent  of  impertinent  flower-beds, 
down  to  the  winding  lake.  Beyond  the  lake,  the  sweep  of  two 
wooded  hills  framed  a  vision  of  blue  distance  darkly  clear  against 
the  storm-swept  sky. 

Under  the  cedars  were  small  tables  and  garden  chairs.  Be 
tween  two  low  boughs  a  hammock  was  slung;  and  in  the  ham 
mock  Evan  Blount  sprawled  at  ease.  One  faultlessly  flannelled 
leg  hung  over  the  edge  revealing  a  glimpse  of  silk  sock  above  a 
white  tennis  shoe.  On  a  table  at  his  elbow  stood  a  cut-glass 
jug  and  tumbler,  a  box  of  chocolates  and  the  remains  of  two 
peaches.  His  head,  deep  in  a  cushion,  was  hidden  from  view; 
but  an  ascending  plume  of  cigarette  smoke  showed  that  he  was 
not  asleep. 

Derek's  footsteps  made  no  sound  on  the  turf;  and  he  had 
just  reached  the  shadow  of  the  trees  when  Van,  turning  to  flick 
the  ash  from  his  cigarette,  was  confronted  by  his  brother's 
powerful,  ill-dressed  figure. 

As  in  boyhood,  so  in  manhood,  these  two  sons  of  one  mother 
were  astonishingly  unalike.  Van,  the  taller  by  several  inches, 
had  all  the  grace  and  pliability  that  Derek  conspicuously  lacked. 
He  was  still  good-looking  in  a  quite  unaggressive  way.  He  had 


34  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

sleek  mouse-coloured  hair,  regular  features  and  a  good-tempered 
mouth,  under  a  carefully  cherished  moustache,  the  colour  of 
ripe  corn.  The  cut  of  his  flannels  was  irreproachable  and  the 
tint  of  his  socks  was  repeated  in  the  butterfly  bow  of  his  tie. 
Inside  and  out  he  was  the  finished  product  of  his  age  and  type. 

"Hullo!  There  you  are,"  was  his  brotherly  greeting.  "The 
parents  were  wondering  at  lunch  when  you  would  deign  to  let 
them  know  if  you  were  still  on  terms  with  this  mortal  coil  — 
and  all  that  —  He  had  raised  himself  on  one  elbow  and  at 
this  point  his  brows  went  up  a  fraction  of  an  inch  —  "  Great 
Scott!  where  the  deuce  did  you  pick  up  those  unholy  garments?" 

"At  Munich,"  Derek  answered  coolly,  "from  a  bland  and 
beery  Teutonic  gentleman,  who  prided  himself  on  his  English 
cut!" 

Van  laughed  —  a  pleasant  lazy  laugh  that  matched  his  voice 
and  person.  "About  as  English  as  the  cut  of  the  Wilhelm- 
strasse!  But  why  patronize  a  gentleman  of  that  persuasion? 
What  was  the  desperate  stroke  of  Fate  — ?" 

Derek  paused  a  moment.  The  unholy  garments  had  fairly 
given  him  away,  and  the  fact  that  Van  would  not  in  the  least 
understand  made  the  tone  of  his  explanation  almost  aggressively 
cool. 

"Fact  is,  an  enterprising  Italian  navvy  relieved  me  of  my 
only  pair  —  at  our  last  halting  place  outside  civilization.  Noth 
ing  for  it  but  to  tramp  on  to  Munich  in  Jack's  shabby  old  Bur 
berry  and  knickerbocker  stockings  —  on  a  blazing  hot  day  and 
the  Wagner  Festival  in  full  swing!  You  can  fancy  Jack  en 
joyed  that  part  of  the  joke  better  than  I  did." 

Van  chuckled. 

"Upon  my  soul,  Dirks,  you're  the  limit.  For  the  honour  of 
Avonleigh,  Father  ought  not  to  let  you  run  round  on  the  loose 
except  under  a  nom  de  plume!  As  for  Mother!  .  .  .  Lucky 
it's  her  Cottage  Hospital  afternoon:  so  you  can  get  rid  of  your 
trophies  before  she  sets  eyes  on  you.  The  shock  might  bring  on 
a  heart  attack!" 

It  was  the  first  chilling  whiff  of  home  atmosphere  and  it 
checked  Derek's  expansive  mood. 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  35 

"Just  the  sort  of  thing  I  would  do  —  eh?"  he  said  in  a 
changed  voice. 

"Rot!  I  was  only  ragging  you.  But  the  poor  dear's  had  one 
jolt  already  to-day.  At  breakfast,  Father  cahnly  announced 
that  he  had  an  urgent  letter  from  old  Wyntown  offering  him 
the  Governorship  of  Bombay.  Fareham's  crumpled  up  with 
the  climate  and  they  want  to  relieve  him  as  soon  as  possible. 
Father's  up  in  town  about  it  now." 

Derek  let  out  his  breath  in  a  low  whistle.  "I  suppose  that 
means  he'll  be  going  soon  —  and  Mother?  " 

Van  lifted  his  eyebrows.  "She  hasn't  said  much,  but  I  can 
see  it's  shaken  her  a  bit."  He  paused  and  chose  a  particular 
shape  of  chocolate  that  contained  his  favourite  cream.  "Hard 
luck  on  her  that  you  should  have  chosen  this  particular  day 
to  drop  out  of  the  blue  without  a  word  of  warning.  Know 
ing  her  little  weaknesses,  old  chap,  you  might  have  favoured 
her  with  some  sort  of  intimation  — " 

Derek  jerked  up  his  head.  "Damn!  Never  occurred  to  me. 
Fact  is"  —  he  flung  out  the  truth  that  rankled  —  "my  coming 
and  going  seem  to  make  no  great  odds  to  any  one.  However 
—  lucky  she's  out.  I  can  easily  take  myself  off  again.  Tramp 
over  to  Ashbourne.  Put  up  at  the  Avonleigh  Arms  and  write 
to-night  announcing  the  precise  moment  of  my  arrival  — 

"My  good  idiot,  you'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  Van  struck  in 
with  drawling  emphasis.  "I  merely  submit  the  rational  sug 
gestion  that  you  make  yourself  scarce  —  when  you've  quite 
done  with  my  chocs.  Then  I  can  break  the  news  to  her  with 
due  tact  .  .  ." 

"Thanks,  very  much.  I'll  spare  you  the  trouble."  He  rose 
abruptly,  almost  oversetting  the  small  table.  "Another  five 
miles  won't  hurt  me.  I'm  in  topping  form  — 

"You  look  it!"  Van's  smile  had  its  patronizing  quality. 
From  the  superior  height  of  six  and  twenty,  he  regarded  his 
young  brother's  whole  behaviour  as  flagrantly  juvenile.  "All 
the  same  —  it's  ludicrous  —  farcical." 

"/  can't  help  that—  The  obvious  reflection  on  their 
mother  checked  further  comment. 


36  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Van  shrugged  and  gave  it  up.  "Oh,  well  —  if  you  will  be  ?* 
fool—" 

"I'm  not  being  a  fool.  I'm  considering  Mother — in  my  own 
way.  I'll  go  on  through  the  woods  over  Burnt  Hill;  and  I'll 
pinch  the  rest  of  your  chocs  to  keep  me  going.  Many  guests 
this  week-end?  I've  asked  Jack  to  keep  me  in  countenance." 

"And  I've  asked  Karl.  Ina's  bringing  her  recently  annexed 
K.  C.  Father  mentioned  Comte  d'Estelles  and  Sir  Eldred 
Lenox  with  the  plain  daughter.  Women  as  plain  as  that  ought 
to  be  painlessly  extinguished  at  a  tender  age!" 

"Van,  you're  a  beast!  You  and  your  pretty  women!"  He 
put  on  his  cap.  "Well  —  I'm  off.  See  you  all  to-morrow." 

Van  merely  waved  his  hand,  but  the  distressful  view  of  his 
brother's  retreating  figure  spurred  him  to  a  final  effort  on  his 
behalf. 

"I  say,  Derek,"  he  called  out,  and  the  boy  swung  round  in  his 
stride.  "For  God's  sake,  don't  appear  again  in  those  Teutonic 
atrocities.  I'll  post  you  a  decent  pair  to-night." 

Derek  grimaced.  "Thanks  awfully.  Sorry  they  gave  you  a 
shock."  And  very  soon  a  curve  of  the  hill  hid  him  from  view. 

Van  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  lit  a  fresh  cigarette  and  resumed 
his  placid  contemplation  of  cedar  branches,  enamelled  with 
turquoise  where  the  sky  gleamed  through.  He  was  just  pleas 
antly  tired.  He  wanted  no  more  human  eruptions.  Derek 
was  queer.  A  thorough  good  chap  at  bottom;  but  in  the  or 
dinary  way  of  life  confoundedly  uncomfortable.  What  the 
deuce  did  a  man  in  his  position  want  with  tramping  round 
Europe  in  shabby  clothes,  like  any  seedy  schoolmaster?  When 
a  man  had  a  beautiful  home  and  the  best  houses  open  to  him  for 
shooting  and  fishing,  why  this  deplorable  craze  for  bemusing 
himself  with  the  other  fellow's  point  of  view? 

From  certain  remarks  Derek  occasionally  let  fall,  he  gathered 
that  this  was  one  of  the  mainsprings  of  his  brother's  superfluous 
activities,  but  from  his  own  higher  vantage  point,  he  clearly 
perceived  the  futility  of  it  all.  The  sense  of  status  was  very 
strong  in  Van.  Even  at  Derek's  age,  he  had  never  wasted  his 
time  or  energy  in  worrying  about  the  man  on  the  other  side  of 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  37 

the  hedge.  A  fellow  didn't  need  to  be  a  'crusted  Conservative' 
to  resent  the  vagaries  of  the  'social  conscience'  crew.  Per 
sonally  Van  counted  himself  a  Liberal  of  the  cultured, 
theoretical,  peace-loving  order.  A  taste  for  ready-made  views 
and  values  was  of  the  essence  of  his  character,  and  his  interests, 
like  his  activities,  travelled  within  the  prescribed  limits  of  his 
own  particular  circle  in  London  and  his  own  insignificant  niche 
in  the  Government  machine.  When  Lord  Avonleigh  wisely 
insisted  on  some  definite  form  of  occupation,  Van  —  a  Londoner 
at  heart  —  had  dutifully  acquiesced  in  a  decree  that  gave  him 
an  excuse  to  live  in  the  only  city  on  earth.  For  two  years  now, 
he  had  been  Private  Secretary  to  a  distinguished  member  of  the 
Foreign  Office.  He  believed  hi  Sir  Edward  Grey  as  the  prince 
of  pacifists,  and  in  the  divine  right  of  every  man  to  go  his  own 
way,  so  long  as  he  refrained  from  treading  on  his  neighbour's 
toes.  He  also  believed  in  a  friendly  Germany  and  the  financial 
impossibility  of  a  European  war.  These  were  distinctly  com 
forting  convictions,  which  was  perhaps  the  main  reason  why 
they  found  favour  in  his  eyes. 

It  was  Derek's  chief  failing  that  he  could  not  or  would  not 
accept  the  face  value  of  men  and  things.  He  had  too  much  of 
the  Moray  element  in  his  composition.  It  might  be  very  ad 
mirable,  but  it  made  him  rather  a  doubtful  blessing  to  his  family. 
Van  thanked  Heaven  that  he  himself  bore  the  impress  of  his 
very  English  mother.  He  also  reflected  without  conscious 
Pharisaism,  that  for  the  honour  of  Avonleigh  —  which  was 
genuinely  dear  to  him  —  Fate  had  done  well  to  bring  him  first 
into  the  world.  Upon  which  satisfying  conclusion  he  presently 
fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  III 

One  near  one  is  too  far. 

BROWNING 
/  want  no  opiates, 

I  want  to  be  co-equal  with  their  fates  .  .  . 
I  want  to  be  awake  and  know;  —  not  stand 
And  stare  at  waving  of  a  conjuror's  wand. 

T.  E.  BROWN 

As  for  Derek,  swinging  down  the  gentle  slope  towards  the  lake, 
he  already  began  to  feel  half  ashamed  of  his  resentment  at  the 
idea  of  having  his  own  casualness  thrown  into  strong  relief  by 
an  exhibition  of  Van's  consideration  for  their  mother's  little 
fads.  Van  had  a  perfect  genius  for  putting  him  in  the  wrong; 
and  the  fact  that  he,  Derek,  had  brought  it  on  himself  did  not 
mend  matters  to  any  extent. 

As  an  isolated  incident  the  thing  seemed  too  trivial  for  words. 
But  it  was  not  isolated.  It  was  symptomatic  of  a  chronic 
state  of  things.  And  because,  at  heart,  he  was  angry  with  him 
self,  Van's  characteristic  offer  had  touched  him  on  the  raw. 
For,  if  Derek  was  sensitive,  he  was  also  proud  and  stubborn. 
His  temper  was  of  the  white-hot  order;  and  his  very  virtues 
were  tinged  with  this  hidden  intensity  of  spirit.  In  the  deep  of 
his  stormy  heart,  he  loved  his  parents  and  Avonleigh  with  a 
fervour  of  which  his  brother  was  sheerly  incapable;  and  he  was 
secretly  jealous  of  Van  —  especially  as  regards  their  mother. 
The  very  fact  of  her  repressive  sweetness  and  graciousness  — 
as  of  one  moving  in  becalmed  regions  of  the  soul  —  had  in 
creased  his  natural  tendency  to  set  her  in  a  place  apart.  Yet 
—  as  far  back  as  he  could  remember  —  that  healthy  boyish 
impulse  of  worship  had  been  checked  and  chilled  at  every  turn. 
Either  through  clumsiness,  or  through  his  very  honesty,  he 
never  seemed  long  out  of  trouble;  and  always  between  him  and 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  39 

his  mother  stood  Van  —  kindly,  easy-going,  selfish,  with  his 
innate  aptitude  for  saying  and  doing  the  right  thing. 

So  it  came  about  that,  in  this  beautiful  home  of  his,  sur 
rounded  with  every  physical  care  and  comfort,  he  had  missed 
the  chief  need  of  his  nature;  vaguely  at  first,  then  more  acutely 
as  the  years  went  on.  And  the  colour  of  his  past  tinged  the 
colour  of  the  future.  Temperament  and  circumstance  com 
bined  to  make  him  a  pessimist  in  the  grain. 

This  evening  as  he  climbed  Burnt  Hill,  his  mood  of  smoulder 
ing  antagonism  to  every  one  and  everything  brought  back  to 
him,  with  peculiar  vividness,  the  emotions  of  that  long  ago 
night  when  he  had  cried  himself  to  sleep,  poor  little  fool,  be 
cause  he  was  convinced  his  mother  did  not  really  love  him,  nor 
ever  would.  Scarcely  realized  by  himself  —  and  never  to  this 
hour  realized  by  Van  —  that  incident  of  the  broken  vase  had 
proved  a  turning-point  in  their  whole  relation.  It  was  the  key 
to  much  of  their  underlying  discord;  their  odd  alternations  of 
hostility  and  brotherly  allegiance;  and  it  had  awakened  in 
Derek  the  dim  beginnings  of  jealousy  in  respect  of  his  gentle, 
soft-mannered  mother,  who  so  obviously  had  eyes  for  no  one 
but  Van.  The  tacit  implication  was  that  whatever  he  did 
must  be  right:  and  it  is  scarcely  surprising  if  Derek  came  to  feel, 
in  bitter  moments,  that  whatever  he  did  must  be  wrong.  Yet 
his  faith  in  her  had  survived  —  in  spite  of  many  jars  —  till  the 
critical  day  when  first  the  insincerities  and  inconsistencies  of  life 
and  religion  had  begun  to  bewilder  his  soul;  and  he  had  so  far 
done  violence  to  his  boy's  reserve  as  to  make  a  clean  breast  of 
his  doubts  and  difficulties,  in  the  sure  conviction  that  she  could 
not  fail  to  understand  .  .  . 

But  most  completely  and  tragically  she  had  failed  to  under 
stand.  She  had  simply  been  pained  and  puzzled,  like  a  hen 
when  the  duckling  she  has  hatched  shows  a  predilection  for  the 
wrong  element  and  wrong  farm-yard  morsels.  He  had  come 
to  her,  hungry  and  eager,  asking  for  bread:  and  she,  quite  un 
wittingly,  had  given  him  a  stone.  He  did  not  come  to  her 
again.  But  although  his  belief  in  her  was  shaken,  his  unshak 
able  boy's  loyalty  remained. 


40  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Thus  he  had  grown  to  manhood  in  a  certain  loneliness  of 
heart  and  spirit,  mitigated  by  the  comradeship  of  school  and  the 
fuller,  freer  human  fellowship  of  Oxford.  There  was  his  real 
life.  The  impalpable  influences  of  that  grave  and  stately  city 
had  lastingly  imbued  his  mind  and  character;  and,  as  a  Blue,  he 
had  won  some  measure  of  popularity  in  his  own  despite.  But 
the  chief  personal  event  of  those  good  years  at  Winchester  and 
Oxford  had  been  his  friendship  with  Mark  Forsyth;  his  natural 
complement  in  all  things  save  one  —  and  that  the  keystone  of 
both  characters  —  a  robust  sincerity  and  a  hatred  of  shams. 
At  Wynchcombe  Friars  he  was  always  happy,  always  at  his 
ease;  though  there  were  moments  when  the  perfect  freedom  and 
confidence  between  Lady  Forsyth  and  her  sons  hurt  him  a 
good  deal  more  than  he  cared  to  confess. 

During  the  long  pull  up  Burnt  Hill,  the  unbidden  thought 
intruded:  —  How  different  everything  would  have  been  had 
he  dropped  in  there  without  warning!  He  rebuked  t'mself 
for  the  comparison,  but  it  rankled  none  the  less. 

He  reached  the  ridge  just  before  sunset,  and,  seated  on  a 
clump  of  heather,  applied  himself  to  Van's  costly  chocolates 
with  a  will.  Hunger  apart,  he  was  hi  no  hurry  for  the  stuffy 
inn  parlour  of  the  "  Avonleigh  Arms."  Up  here  it  was  spacious 
and  wholesome  and  silent  and  there  would  probably  be  '  a  fine 
flare-up'  after  the  storm. 

By  this  time  he  felt  almost  grateful  to  Van  for  having  thrust 
upon  him  another  twenty -four  hours  of  vagabondage  —  that 
must  be  turned  to  practical  account.  For,  if  his  father  were 
likely  soon  to  be  leaving  England,  the  dreaded  interview  as  to 
the  choice  of  a  profession  could  not  much  longer  be  postponed. 

During  this  last  year  at  Oxford  he  had  considered  several 
possibilities  with  no  very  encouraging  result.  In  every  direc 
tion  he  found  cast-iron  systems,  a  good  deal  the  worse  for  wear. 
In  every  direction  ruts  and  grooves  lay  in  wait  for  his  rebellious 
feet.  Eventually  they  could  claim  him.  But  his  immediate 
craving  was  for  a  spell  of  more  independent  adventurous  move 
ment.  He  wanted,  urgently,  to  see  and  feel  and  think  for  him 
self;  to  tackle  life,  as  it  were,  with  his  bare  hands.  But  the 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  41 

crux  of  the  matter  was  —  how  would  his  father  regard  that 
very  unorthodox  aspiration?  He  felt  the  need  of  some  definite 
programme  to  mitigate  inevitable  disapproval  — 

Meantime  if  he  sat  mooning  much  longer  on  Burnt  Hill  he 
would  miss  his  last  chance  of  a  square  meal.  There  was  also  that 
note  to  his  mother.  He  knew  himself  capable — almost — of  walk 
ing  five  miles  in  order  to  write  it  —  and  forgetting  it  in  the  end. 

He  rose  briskly,  and  stood  a  moment  surveying  the  wide 
emptiness  of  the  scene  under  windy  sky  dappled  with  flakes  of 
cloud,  that  in  the  west  were  ignited  to  flakes  of  fire. 

Burnt  Hill,  from  the  summit,  commands  sweeping  views;  on 
one  hand,  toward  the  downs  and  the  sea;  on  the  other,  across 
billowing  country,  toward  the  pine  and  heather  region  round 
Aldershot.  Lord  Avonleigh  had  been  tempted  often,  by  offers 
from  the  new-made  rich,  for  one  of  the  finest  building  sites  in 
the  neighbourhood.  But,  although  his  large  estate  was  heavily 
hampered,  Burnt  Hill  was  sacred;  almost  a  part  of  his  own 
grounds.  Only  in  one  instance  had  he  succumbed;  and,  as 
twilight  engulfed  the  valley,  the  visible  sign  of  that  surrender 
flaunted  its  naked  ugliness  upon  the  skyline,  breaking  the  noble 
sweep  of  the  ridge. 

Derek  still  resented  that  impertinent  presence,  for  which 
Jack's  father  was  mainly  responsible.  In  provocative  moods 
he  would  allude  to  it  as,  "Your  family's  commercial  thumb 
mark  on  our  holy  hill."  Its  tenant,  a  solitary  man  of  science, 
was  reputed  to  be  on  the  track  of  chemical  discoveries  that 
might  mean  'a  very  big  thing'  for  Burlton's,  a  large  old-estab 
lished  metal  industry  in  the  Midlands.  The  whole  venture 
was  admittedly  a  speculation;  and  Lord  Avonleigh  —  as  a 
prominent  shareholder  —  took  a  mildly  sceptical  interest  in  it: 
hence  his  surrender  to  Burlton's  importunity.  Their  protege 
was  a  shy,  inoffensive  creature  with  a  damaged  lung;  and  it 
had  been  part  of  the  compact  that  Burlton  should  secure  for 
him  a  peaceful  retreat,  in  bracing  air,  where  he  could  set  up 
laboratories  and  carry  on  his  work  unmolested  by  the  idle 
curiosity  of  country  neighbours. 

That  was  two  years  ago,  and  the  Hermit  of  Burnt  Hill  was 


42  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

still  pursuing  his  mysterious  researches,  apparently  without 
result.  Would  they  ever  come  to  anything,  Derek  wondered, 
as  he  swung  down  the  hill,  and  justify  that  hideous  excrescence 
by  retrieving  Burlton's  affairs  —  ? 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  enjoying  a  hearty  supper  in  Gos 
ling's  parlour  behind  the  bar  of  the  "Avonleigh  Arms,"  with 
old  Tom  and  young  Bert  for  company,  drowning  home  griev 
ances  in  a  mug  of  sound  English  ale. 

The  elder  Gosling  —  a  devoted  adherent  —  beamed  all  over 
his  broad  ugly  face,  sliced  a  home-cured  ham  in  his  best  profes 
sional  manner  and  begged  leave  to  crack  a  bottle  of  'fine  old 
crusty'  in  honour  of  the  occasion. 

Bert,  just  turned  twenty,  gave  no  outward  sign  of  shar 
ing  his  father's  satisfaction.  He  was  a  shrewd-looking  youth, 
equipped  —  by  the  dangerous  process  of  semi-education  —  with 
a  mass  of  half-digested  knowledge  and  a  flourishing  crop  of 
prejudices.  His  innate  distrust  of  the  'real  gentry'  was  tem 
pered  with  grudging  admiration:  the  silver-gilt  article,  rapidly 
overrunning  the  earth,  he  distrusted  through  and  through. 
He  would  sell  his  soul  to  no  '  blooming  capitalist '  —  not  if  he 
knew  it.  Yet  —  in  these  degenerate  days  —  what  promise  of 
advancement  for  any  self-respecting  man  on  the  land?  From 
the  horns  of  this  dilemma  he  had  leaped  to  the  one  unfailing 
conclusion — Canada:  and  he  was  engaged  in  the  critical  process 
of  persuading  his  father  to  back  his  venture  with  a  hundred 
pounds  of  capital  when  Derek  appeared  on  the  scene. 

The  interruption  was  probably  more  welcome  to  the  father 
than  to  the  son,  whose  respectful  but  slightly  guarded  friend 
liness  threw  the  old  man's  geniality  into  stronger  relief. 

As  for  Derek  —  either  from  sheer  perversity,  or  from  larger, 
hidden  causes  —  he  felt  no  gene  here,  in  this  stuffy  back  room, 
over-full  of  photographs  and  horsehair  furniture.  With  his 
brain  still  full  of  vivid  memories,  he  gave  his  host  a  lively 
account  of  other  inns  among  the  Austrian  Highlands,  of  al 
fresco  suppers,  of  village  bumpkins  prancing  with  local  beauties 
to  the  tuneful  scraping  of  village  violins. 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  43 

They  agreed,  all  three,  in  regretting  that  such  homely  socia 
bilities  no  longer  enlivened  the  English  country-side.  Gosling 
laid  the  blame  with  a  trowel  on  the  ubiquitous  picture-palace, 
"where  folks,  too  lazy  to  do  nothink  else,  sits  an'  gapes  like  a 
herd  o'  penned  cattle."  But  —  the  interrupted  talk  with  Bert 
being  much  on  his  mind  —  he  could  not  long  keep  away  from 
the  subject.  Though  Derek  was  young,  he  plainly  had  a  head 
on  his  shoulders;  and  his  opinion  on  the  Canada  scheme  might 
be  worth  hearing. 

A  brief  pause,  while  Bert  filled  their  mugs,  gave  the  old  man 
his  chance. 

"It  do  be  queer,  Mr.  Derek,  how  things  fall  out,"  he  began, 
turning  his  bleared  blue  eyes  from  one  young  face  to  the  other. 
"Just  afore  you  come  in,  there  was  Bert  and  me  dead-locked, 
in  a  argyment  about  a  notion  Vs  set  upon;  and  seems  like 
Providence  sent  you  along  at  the  fizzicological  moment  —  as 
the  noospaper  men  say  —  to  give  us  the  castin'  vote." 

Bert's  attempt  to  kick  his  father  under  the  table  merely 
brought  him  up  against  Derek's  foot,  that  was  politely  with 
drawn. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir.  A  touch  o'  the  cramp,"  he  muttered, 
reddening;  and  Gosling  babbled  on,  unhindered,  —  unaware. 

"  It's  a  common  tale  enough,  sir,  these  days.  Here's  this  boy 
o'  mine  can't  stomach  the  town  nor  fact'ry  line  o'  life  no  more'n 
his  father;  but  havin'  a  better  head-piece  an'  better  schooling 
Vs  a  bit  too  ambitious,  'e  says,  to  dump  'isself  down  on  a  farm 
an'  stick  there." 

"Too  much  ever-an'-ever-amen  sort  o'  business  for  my 
taste,"  objected  Bert,  still  sulky,  but  determined  to  get  in  his 
oar.  "This  world's  a  middlin'  big  place;  an'  jest  reading 
about  it  all  seems  a  rotten  okyerpation  for  a  chap  like  me. 
What's  the  bloomin'  use  of  eyes  an'  ears,  an'  trains  an'  steamers 
scootin'  all  over  the  earth  if  a  man's  ter  sit  chained  up  like  a 
dog  to  a  kennel  all  'is  days?" 

"There's  kennel-dogs  as  can  sniff  out  a  deal  o'  'uman  nature 
when  the  fleas  don't  keep  'em  too  busy,"  rejoined  the  good- 
natured  old  publican  with  a  wink  of  his  watery  eye.  "But 


44  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

them  that  grins  an'  runs  about  the  city  carries  their  tails  higher 
an'  barks  the  loudest." 

"They've  more  call  to  —  most  of  'em."  Bert  stuck  stub 
bornly  to  his  point.  "They  git  a  chance  to  catch  more'n  fleas 
—  they  do.  I'll  lay  Mr.  Derek  takes  my  meanin'.  He've 
just  bin  runnin'  round  himself  — " 

"Now  then  —  no  impidence  to  a  son  of  'is  Lordship!" 

The  old-time  spirit  of  allegiance  —  very  strong  in  Gosling  — 
moved  his  son  to  a  smile,  tinged  faintly  with  contempt. 

"I  hadn't  any  thought  o'  such  rot:  nor  I'm  sure  Mr.  Derek 
hadn't  neither."  And,  as  Derek  mutely  confirmed  that  assur 
ance,  Bert  went  on:  "The  likes  o'  you,  sir,  can  run  around  just 
for  play-time.  The  likes  of  us,  if  we  want  to  catch  more'n 
fleas  (as  I  said),  we've  got  to  take  the  plunge  outright;  sink  or 
swim.  See?" 

"And  you  want  to  take  the  plunge?"  Derek  asked  with 
quickened  interest.  "In  what  direction?" 

"Australy  or  Canada  for  choice,  where  a  chap  can  work  on 
the  land  for  a  decent  livin'  wage  an'  get  a  chance  to  rise  out  o' 
the  rut,  if  'e's  worth  'is  salt.  I  got  a  friend  out  British  Co 
lumbia  way,  makin'  a  good  thing  of  it.  Married  an'  all.  'E 
says,  'Bring  along  a  bit  o'  capital  an'  join  in  with  me.'  Dad, 
here,  says  'e's  for  layin'  'is  money  on  England.  I  tell  'im  'e'll 
git  twice  the  return  for  it  out  there." 

"An'  I  says  old  England  needs  the  money  an'  she  needs  the 
men,"  Gosling  lunged  in,  perceiving  Bert's  attempt  to  enlist 
Derek  against  him.  "An'  I  say  the  mighty  clever  folks  that 
ruined  the  land  wi'  their  Free  Trade  tomfoolery  do  be  responsible 
for  this  pretty  state  o'  things;  that  there's  more  good  British 
money  an'  men  goin'  out  o'  this  country  every  year.  An'  I 
call  it  damned  unpatriotic  if  you  ar'st  me.  I'm  none  o'  yer 
cosmipolitans  —  no,  thank  yer.  An'  as  fer  his  demikratic 
twaddle  — ! "  He  sniffed  scornfully.  "That's  wot  Bert's  after. 
Ole  England's  not  movin'  that  way  fast  enough  to  suit  'is 
ejjicated  taste.  I  tell  'im  they  kind  can  sling  the  words,  easy 
as  winkin' ;  but  all  it  amounts  to  is  —  Pull  down  the  man  on 
top  an'  stand  on  'is  'ead  yerself.  Pick  'is  pockets  in  the  sacred 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  45 

name  o'  freedom  an'  stuff  'is  money  in  yer  own!  I  may  be  a 
old  fool;  kennel-dogs  mostly  is,  'cordin'  to  Bert.  But  it  do 
seem  like  as  we'd  most  on  us  be  better  men  —  an'  better  off, 
maybe  —  if  all  sorts  'ud  'ave  a  good  old  try  at  pullin'  together, 
'stead  o'  pullin'  every  which  ways  to  once,  an'  scratchin'  each 
other's  eyes  out,  between  whiles,  for  rekereation  — " 

That  word  lit  a  spark  in  Bert's  shrewd,  greenish  eyes. 

"Recreation  be  blowed!"  he  retorted  hotly.  "It's  life  an' 
death  to  us.  As  for  pullin'  together  —  no  fear;  seein'  the  in 
terests  o'  both  parties  pulls  two  ways." 

"Aye,  but  do  they,  if  ye  take  a  straight  look  at  things,  'stead 
o'  squintin'  contempshus  down  yer  nose?  Where'd  labour  be 
if  there  was  no  landlords  nor  masters  to  screw  more  wages  out 
of,  eh?  In  my  humble  notion  'tis  jes'  the  man  an'  wumman 
business  all  over.  They  must  'ave  their  slap  at  each  other  to 
ease  theirselves;  but  atween  the  slaps  they  got  to  pull  together 
or  what  'ud  come  to  creation?  But  'oo's  agoin'  to  larn  that  to 
Bert  an'  'is  lot?  Not  no  bloomin'  furriners  an'  upstarts.  'Tis 
the  jennywyne  article,  like  yerself,  Mr.  Derek,  that's  gettin'  too 
scarce  hi  'igh  places.  I  'ad  one  of  'em  sleepin'  'ere  on'y  larst 
week:  an'  we  got  talkin'  this  way:  an'  'e  says  to  me,  'Mr. 
Goslin','  'e  says,  'we'm  natural  born  alleys,  we  Tories,  an' 
them  as  work  on  the  land.  That  was  Dizzy's  notion,'  'e  says; 
'an'  if  any  man  ever  'ad  'is  'ead  screwed  on  tight  it  was  'im.'" 

Derek  nodded. 

"But  a  good  deal  has  happened  since  then.  Most  of  you 
fellows  have  simply  become  pawns  in  the  game  of  the  middle- 
class  Liberals.  They've  made  bad  blood  between  us  and  you, 
for  their  own  ends;  and  it's  your  vote  they're  counting  on  to 
help  them  play  old  Harry  with  the  British  Constitution." 

At  that,  the  spark  in  Bert's  eyes  leaped  into  flame. 

"You  mean  —  they've  took  us  in  all  along  the  line?" 

Derek  smiled.     " Manoeuvred  —  would  be  a  politer  word! " 

"Mr.  Derek,  sir,  that's  a  lie — no  matter  if  the  King  spoke  it." 

"Now  then  —  you  keep  your  mouth  shut!"  old  Gosling 
shouted,  emphasizing  the  command  with  a  very  square  fist. 
"No  disrespeck  to  'is  Majesty  under  my  roof.  Mr.  Derek  ain't 


46  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

no  fancy  talker,  tellin'  you  'lection  lies  such  as  you  swallered 
without  blinkin'  year  before  last.  /  kin  remember  the  treacle 
they  powered  over  us  in  nineteen  'six  better  nor  neither  o'  you. 
All  we  'ad  to  do  was  to  fling  in  the  votes,  damn  Joe  Chamber 
lain,  dish  the  Tories — an'  'ey,  presto,  a  new  'eaven  an'  earth 
would  come  along  by  express  train.  That  express  got  off  the 
rails  somewhere,  I'm  thinkin',  afore  ever  it  reached  England." 

Bert  began  to  look  a  little  crestfallen.  "But  we  got  the 
People's  Budget,"  he  urged  with  less  assurance.  "And  the 
Land  Scheme  an'  Insurance." 

"Ninepence  for  fourpence!  Ef  you  believe  in  it!  Eh,  Mr. 
Derek?" 

"Precisely!"  Derek  agreed  with  a  twinkle. 

"What's  wrong  with  it  then?"  the  boy  flung  in  angrily. 

"It's  clumsy  tinkering,  Bert,"  Derek  said,  more  gravely, 
"  with  German  tools.  That's  been  the  tune  of  it,  all  round,  these 
last  few  years:  sops  flung  to  those  who  shout  the  loudest;  but 
no  serious  attempt  to  tackle  wages,  strikes,  lock-outs,  housing. 
As  for  your  Insurances  and  things  —  hasn't  it  ever  struck  you 
that  each  time  the  State  gives  you  ninepence  for  fourpence 
with  one  hand,  it  steals  away  a  bit  of  your  personal  liberty 
with  the  other?  And  when  that's  gone  on  long  enough  you'll 
all  be  like  so  many  sheep  in  a  pen,  with  the  State  for  your 
shepherd  and  not  a  foot  of  free  space  to  kick  your  heels  in.  If 
you  think  I'm  piling  it  on,  go  to  Germany  and  keep  your  eyes 
and  ears  open.  Over  there  the  average  man  is  so  coddled  by 
the  State  that  he  can't  call  his  soul  his  own;  and  the  Radicals 
and  Socialists  you  vote  for  are  mapping  out  their  patent  para 
dise  on  much  the  same  lines." 

"Oh,  Lord!    I  never  saw  it  that  way." 

Derek  suppressed  a  smile. 

"If  many  of  you  were  allowed  to  see  it  that  way,  it  would 
spoil  the  show." 

"An'  we  got  to  walk  into  their  sheep's  pen  blindfolded? 
Thanks  orf'ly  — for  nothin'!" 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  impatiently  and  got  upon  his  feet. 
The  meal  was  over  and  Gosling  was  filling  his  pipe. 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  47 

"Tell  you  what,  Dad.  You  say  I  can  believe  Mr.  Derek. 
Well,  if  the  old  country's  goin'  the  way  he  says,  that  puts  the 
top  on  my  argyment  for  Canada.  You  said  Providence  sent 
him  along.  Let  him  speak  up.  I'm  agreeable." 

Derek  looked  from  father  to  son  with  his  sudden  smile. 
"Gosling's  right  about  England  needing  her  own  men  and 
money.  But  till  she  changes  her  present  tactics  she  can't 
blame  go-ahead  young  fellows  for  preferring  to  try  their  luck 
elsewhere.  As  to  the  capital  —  you  can  hardly  ask  me  to 
vote  away  another  man's  money  1" 

"  'Ear,  'ear ! "  Gosling  applauded  with  his  knife  handle.  "  'E'd 
vote  away  another  chap's  money  on  'isself,  without  blinkin', 
would  Bert!  A  cool  'undred  'e's  askin';  and  not  me  first  born, 
neither.  Thar's  young  Tom  —  that  steps  into  my  shoes  — 
doin'  well  on  'is  own.  An'  thar's  James  workin'  steady  under 
Farmer  Groves.  What'll  'e  say  if  I  plump  a  nice  bit  o'  capital 
on  Bert?  Not  ter  mention  thar's  George  comin'  on;  and  my 
two  gals  —  I  ax  you,  Mr.  Derek,  plain  an'  straight,  does  Bert, 
there,  strike  you  as  a  likely  sort  of  Vestment  —  eh?  'E's  got 
the  brains,  all  right;  an'  'e's  got  the  push.  'E  swears,  if  'e  does 
well,  Vll  pay  me  back:  an'  ef  'e  gets  'isself  in  a  knot  'e  won't 
come  on  me  to  fy-nance  'is  resurrekshun.  Ef  you  wos  in  my 
place  would  yer  feel  like  backin'  'im  to  the  tune  of  a  round 
'underd?" 

The  luckless  Bert  —  completely  taken  aback  —  grew  red 
with  mingled  rage  and  awkwardness;  redder  still  under  the 
scrutiny  of  Derek's  direct  and  smiling  gaze.  Only  acute 
curiosity  checked  the  overflow  of  his  pent-up  wrath:  and  Derek's 
momentary  hesitation  seemed  to  him  interminable. 

"Tell  him  you  wouldn't  be  no  such  dam'  fool  —  an'  be  done 
with  it,"  he  muttered,  clenching  and  unclenching  the  hands  he 
had  thrust  into  his  pocket. 

Derek's  smile  deepened.  "I'm  not  so  sure."  Then,  turning 
to  Gosling,  he  said  quietly:  "The  truth  is  —  /  feel  like  backing 
him  myself  to  the  tune  of  fifty  —  if  you  can  manage  the 
rest.  I  can  see  he's  in  earnest.  Why  not  give  him  his 
chance?" 


48  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

If  Bert  had  been  taken  aback  before,  he  now  stood  con 
founded.  His  mouth  had  gone  dry  with  nervous  excitement; 
the  whole  thing  was  so  remote  from  his  wildest  imaginings  that 
he  had  not  a  ghost  of  a  notion  what  he  ought  to  say. 

Old  Gosling,  it  seemed,  was  in  no  such  dilemma.  His  voice 
broke  in  harshly  on  the  exultant  confusion  of  the  boy's  thoughts. 

"Now  then,  Bert,  be  you  struck  deaf  an'  dumb?  Up  an' 
tell  Mr.  Derek  you'll  never  fergit  'is  generous  offer,  but  you  an' 
me  ain't  got  no  right  to  'is  money  — " 

Bert's  heart  dropped  like  a  stone  into  his  boots:  but  before 
he  could  screw  himself  to  the  painful  point  of  obedience,  Derek 
was  speaking  again. 

"Nonsense,  nonsense!"  he  said,  a  touch  of  brusqueness  in  his 
tone,  "I'd  sooner  hear  him  speak  the  truth  and  say  outright 
that  he'll  be  jolly  glad  of  that  fifty  and  he  wouldn't  refuse  it 
for  a  kingdom." 

Bert's  irrepressible  grin  told  him  he  had  hit  the  mark;  and 
there  flashed  a  look  between  them  that  seemed  to  put  the 
awkward  business  of  giving  and  taking  on  a  perfectly  natural 
footing.  Lord's  son  and  publican's  son,  they  were  boys  before 
all,  with  the  human  link  of  youth  between  them. 

"Thought  so!"  Derek  chuckled  and  rose  from  the  table  as 
if  to  conclude  the  matter.  "We'll  take  it  as  said!  And  that 
squares  things  so  far  as  I'm  concerned.  You  can  settle  the 
rest  without  my  help." 

"But  Mr.  Derek  —  sir — "  the  old  man  protested;  and 
Derek  heard  the  ghost  of  a  tremor  in  his  voice. 

"All  right,  Gosling.  Nothing  to  worry  about,"  he  said  in  a 
changed  tone.  "  Give  you  my  word,  my  father  would  approve. 
And  —  er  —  look  here,  if  my  room's  ready,  I  think  I'll  turn  in. 
I'm  dog  tired." 

"Yes,  sir.  Quite  ready,  sir.  Molly  shall  bring  the  hot 
water."  Gosling's  professional  manner  came  timely  to  his  aid. 
With  remarkable  alacrity  he  pounced  upon  the  door  handle; 
and  perhaps  for  the  first  time  that  automatic  sign  of  respect 
was,  for  him,  a  genuine  expression  of  the  real  thing. 

"I  s'pose,  sir,"  he  ventured,  emboldened  by  Derek's  friendly 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  49 

nod  of  acknowledgment  —  "An  old  man  an'  a  fawther  do  be 
allowed  to  say  thank  'ee?" 

Derek  smiled.  "Honour  bright,  Gosling,  all  the  thanks  I 
want  is  to  know  you  '11  play  up  to  my  lead." 

"You  kin  rely  on  me,  sir.  An'  please  God  the  boy '11  not 
shame  yer  good  opinion  though  'e  do  seem  to  'ave  lost  'is  senses 
an'  'is  tongue  — " 

"He'll  recover  them!  Good-night,  Bert."  He  nodded  over 
his  shoulder  at  the  figure  on  the  hearthrug. 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Derek." 

And  if  Bert  had  lost  his  tongue,  there  was  an  unmistakable 
note  in  his  voice  that  gratified  Derek  more  than  any  stumbling 
attempt  at  thanks,  however  sincere.  ' 


Aristocrats  are  the  same  everyivhere,  whether  they  have  titles, 
or  whether  they  have  none.  They  are  those  who  believe  they 
owe  their  best  to  God  and  men  —  and  they  serve. 

PRICE  COLLIER 

THE  best  bedroom  of  the  Avonleigh  Arms  was  filled  to  over 
flowing  with  a  curtained  four-poster,  and  an  imposing  suite  of 
early  Victorian  mahogany.  In  the  negligible  space  between,  it 
was  possible  to  move  circumspectly  as  became  the  discreet 
period  to  which  the  room  and  its  trappings  belonged. 

Mrs.  Gosling,  Derek  supposed,  had  slept  in  that  bed  on  her 
wedding  night  and  every  night  after  —  except  for  an  occasional 
seaside  trip  —  till  the  day  of  her  death,  five  years  ago.  Above 
the  washing-stand  hung  an  enlarged  photograph  of  her  with 
smooth-plastered  hair  and  a  medallion  brooch  as  big  as  a  duck's 
egg.  It  was  a  pleasant,  shrewd  face,  with  a  strong  look  of  Bert 
about  the  eyes  and  brow.  Perhaps  she  also,  in  feminine  fashion, 
had  yearned  beyond  the  skyline.  Perhaps  she  would  have  un 
derstood  better  than  his  father  her  son's  remark,  "too  much 
ever-and-ever-amen  sort  o'  business,  for  my  taste." 

It  was  those  words,  more  than  anything  else,  that  had 
awakened  Derek's  sympathy  for  the  sulky  boy  who  had  so 
evidently  resented  his  intrusion  and  old  Gosling's  burst  of 
confidence.  In  point  of  fact,  they  were  more  than  half  respon 
sible  for  the  third  act  of  sheer  impulse  that  stood  to  his  credit  — 
or  discredit  —  in  one  short  day.  Yet,  had  any  one  called  him  a 
creature  of  impulse,  he  would  have  stoutly  —  and  rightly  — 
denied  the  impeachment.  It  would  be  nearer  the  truth  to  say 
that  certain  root  qualities  in  him  were  so  vigorous,  so  assured, 
that  when  the  appeal  was  to  one  of  these,  action  was  swift  and 
prompt,  unhampered  by  the  wavering  that  besets  a  more  com 
plex  frame  of  mind.  Perhaps  this  is  why  a  genuine  act  of  im- 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  51 

pulse  is  so  rarely  regretted.  We  mistrust,  at  our  peril,  the 
deeper  promptings  of  the  heart,  which,  in  vital  matters,  steers 
a  truer  course  than  the  head  through  the  cross-currents  of  lif e. 

Derek  went  straight  to  the  square  bay  window,  and  flung 
every  casement  wide.  After  weeks  of  living  hi  the  open,  cur 
tains  and  windows  still  seemed  inventions  of  the  devil. 

Outside  there  were  stars  and  pale  wisps  of  cloud.  A  gibbous 
moon  hung  low  and  red  over  Burnt  Hill  faintly  illuminating 
the  queer  medley  of  houses,  old  and  new.  The  street  was 
lighted  in  patches  by  occasional  lamp-posts  set  very  wide 
apart.  A  ghost  of  a  breeze  stirred  the  sycamore  under  the 
window;  and  that  faint  sound  intensified  the  larger  stillness 
beyond. 

Derek  yawned,  settled  himself  in  the  one  armchair,  and 
leisurely  rilled  his  pipe.  The  statement  that  he  was  dog  tired 
had  been  a  pardonable  exaggeration,  an  excuse  to  escape  from 
the  consequences  of  his  own  act.  He  was  just  sufficiently  tired 
to  feel  that  smoking  a  pipe  in  an  armchair  and  turning  over  the 
contents  of  his  brain  was  occupation  enough  for  any  man  of 
average  intelligence.  And  the  day's  events  provided  much 
material  for  reflection.  Breakfast  and  Paris  seemed  endless 
ages  away.  .  .  . 

More  than  ever  now,  he  was  glad  of  the  impulse  that  had 
sent  him  on  to  Ashbourne.  Queer  how  often  such  trifles  seemed 
to  form  hinges  on  which  the  big  things  turned.  To-night,  in 
Gosling's  stuffy  little  parlour,  he  had  stumbled  on  the  fulfilment 
of  an  ambition  dating  from  the  time  when  first  his  acute  sense  of 
justice  and  sympathy  with  the  under  dog  had  given  him  a  tilt 
towards  Socialism;  a  tilt  hardly  to  be  escaped  these  days,  by 
any  thoughtful  young  man.  How  far  it  propels  him  is  largely 
a  matter  of  temperament,  circumstance  and  —  dare  one  add? 
• —  an  innate  capacity  for  facing  facts.  Derek,  as  has  been  seen, 
already  began  to  detect  the  fundamental  flaws  in  that  Utopian 
panacea  for  every  ill  that  man's  flesh  and  spirit  and  bank-book 
are  heir  to.  He  was  critical  of  men  and  things,  simply  because 
of  his  urgent  need  to  know  their  real  nature;  and  because  the 
doubting,  searching  spirit  of  the  true  sceptic  lay  at  the  root  of 


52  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

his  hunger  for  knowledge  and  truth.  Very  early  he  had  realized 
that  the  School  and  University  he  loved  were  mere  tributaries 
to  the  turbulent  main  stream  of  life.  Very  early  his  brain  and 
heart  had  reached  out  to  those  vast  regions  beyond  the  fringes 
of  mere  pleasantness  in  which  he  lived. 

If  only  he  could  enter  into  those  regions!  If  he  could,  even 
in  a  measure  feel,  from  within,  the  struggles  of  those  who  live 
bravely  and  bitterly,  whose  hand  is  against  the  comfortable, 
the  leisured,  the  rich!  Then,  perhaps,  he  might  arrive  at  dis 
covering  whether  there  was  any  virtue  in  the  nostrums  of 
idealists  for  the  sins  and  sorrows  of  the  great  submerged.  For 
himself  he  distrusted,  innately,  the  champions  of  wholesale 
subversion.  He  refused  to  believe  that  the  world  could  possibly 
be  a  better  place  to  live  in  for  any  one,  if  Labour  Members 
wrangled  in  the  House  of  Lords,  and  Buckingham  Palace  were 
converted  into  a  home  for  state-reared  babies  or  decayed  gentle 
women.  But  he  had  his  share  of  the  divine  discontent  and 
healthy  rebelliousness  that  is  the  Englishman's  prerogative  and 
a  sure  guarantee  that  England  is  an  abiding  city. 

One  thing,  at  least,  was  certain,  the  move  in  the  right  direc 
tion  ought  to  come  from  the  men  at  the  top.  If  aristocracy 
meant  anything  it  meant  a  genuine  spirit  of  service  and  of 
leadership  toward  those  less  favoured  by  heritage  and  tradition ; 
a  deeper,  more  personal  sense  of  responsibility  among  those 
who  have,  toward  those  who  have  not.  As  for  favoured  casuals, 
like  himself,  it  was  simply  and  obviously  'up'  to  them  to  give 
those  others  a  hand  out  of  the  mud  and  the  ruts  whenever 
opportunity  offered. 

This  last  conviction  was  no  mere  heady  impulse  of  youth 
haloed  with  vague  sentimentalism.  It  was  a  deep  and  dumb 
necessity  of  his  nature  that  might  yet  land  him  in  troubled 
waters:  a  quality  that  must  have  made  his  mother  at  once  proud 
and  anxious  had  she  eyes  for  any  one  on  earth  but  her  elder 
son.  To-night  his  first  real  chance  had  been  given  him;  and 
in  his  unhesitating  response  to  it  you  have  the  measure  of  his 
conviction. 

But  Bert's  case  was  a  comparatively  simple  affair:  just  a 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  53 

matter  of  cash.  Among  those  others  —  the  rank  and  file  of  the 
Many  —  cash  was  not  the  only,  nor  even  the  surest,  solvent  of 
the  difficulties  that  crushed  their  spirits  and  embittered  their 
lives.  The  puzzle  of  puzzles  for  Derek  —  as  for  all  who  have 
honestly  travelled  the  same  road  —  was  how  to  get  at  them; 
how  learn  to  think  their  thoughts,  see  life  from  their  angle  of 
vision. 

Superficially,  of  course,  the  thing  was  done  every  day  by 
scores  of  zealous  Churchmen  and  amateurs  in  philanthropy. 
Derek  knew  something  of  that  from  disconcerting  personal 
experience.  He  had  spent  part  of  more  than  one  vacation  at 
certain  East  End  Mission  Houses;  strong  in  the  conviction 
that  young  Oxford,  very  much  in  earnest,  must  have  a  genuine 
message,  genuine  gifts,  for  those  outside  the  gates.  But  soon 
he  had  discovered,  to  his  frank  astonishment,  that  young  Ox 
ford  —  and  young  Cambridge  no  less  —  had  more  to  learn  and 
to  receive  from  that  underworld  of  struggle  and  limitation  than 
had  seemed  possible  upon  a  superficial  survey  of  both. 

This,  in  itself,  was  a  stimulating  discovery.  The  trouble 
began  when  he  perceived  that  the  bulk  of  his  fellow-workers  — 
earnest  and  sincere  men,  honestly  intent  on  "lifting  the  masses" 
—  had  never  made  it  at  all.  It  was  as  if  one  vital  channel  of 
communication  were  blocked;  and  it  possibly  accounted  for  a 
good  deal  of  disheartening  failure.  But  there  had  been  more 
than  one  jar  because  he  had  ventured  to  speak  his  mind. 

Rebuffed  and  puzzled,  he  had  turned  from  his  fellows,  to  the 
men  and  boys  who  came  readily  enough  to  their  meetings  and 
clubs.  With  them  he  had  fared  better  —  up  to  a  point.  Be 
yond  it,  he  could  make  little  real  headway:  and,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  he  came  to  feel  as  if  the  whole  fabric  was  built  upon  a 
pleasant  sham.  In  place  of  truths  he  was  offered  shibboleths; 
and  half  the  young  ordinands  he  met  seemed  amazingly  out  of 
touch  with  realities:  well-meaning,  spiritual-minded  men,  con 
tent  to  live  and  work  in  water-tight  compartments,  impervious 
to  the  more  rousing  and  staggering  facts  of  life.  That  there 
were  notable  exceptions  goes  without  saying:  but  in  the  end, 
Derek  had  retired,  baffled  by  the  intangible  barrier  of  caste,  by 


54  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

the  complacence  of  enthusiasts,  who  dispensed  their  own  partic 
ular  brand  of  other-worldly  wisdom,  like  a  patent  medicine,  too 
often  with  scant  knowledge  of  the  patient's  actual,  urgent  needs. 

Derek's  valiant  efforts  to  emulate  them  had  merely  made  him 
feel  a  Pharisee  for  his  pains.  Everything  was  so  easy  for  him; 
so  hard  for  the  men  and  boys  of  whose  handicaps  and  struggles 
he  knew  next  to  nothing,  except  that  most  of  them  had  probably 
never  been  given  a  fair  chance. 

Baffled  in  his  first  round,  he  refused  to  accept  defeat.  He 
would  get  at  them  yet  —  those  others  —  in  defiance  of  obstacles 
and  grooves.  He  was  beginning  to  think  it  could  best  be  done 
by  trying  to  share  their  experience  and  so  catch  a  glimpse  of 
their  point  of  view.  But — a  large  'but'  —  how  far  was  it 
possible  for  a  man,  well-born  like  himself,  to  become  merged 
for  a  time  in  the  "unseen  leaven  of  good- will  and  fellowship 
working  in  the  common  bread"?  Practical  difficulties  would 
be  many  and  obvious;  but  the  idea  had  not  yet  reached  the 
practical  stage.  It  had  lain  hidden  in  him,  for  months,  like  a 
seed  germinating  in  the  dark :  and  to-night  —  stimulated  by 
Bert's  ambition  and  Miss  de  Vigne's  departure  for  Canada  — 
it  sent  a  green  shoot  above  ground  in  the  shape  of  a  feasible 
plan. 

Admittedly,  Lord  Avonleigh's  son  could  not  become  a  work 
ing  man  in  any  part  of  the  British  Isles.  But  away  there,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  world,  it  would  be  a  comparatively  simple 
matter.  Why  not  have  the  courage  of  his  conviction  and 
make  the  plunge? 

A  few  years  of  roughing  it  would  do  him  no  earthly  harm. 
He  was  blessed  with  a  fine  constitution.  Much '  footer '  and  run 
ning  had  made  him  'hard  as  nails.'  And  he  suddenly  realized 
that  Avonleigh  without  his  father  would  be  unendurable.  If 
he  intended  to  leave  England,  now  was  the  acceptable  time. 
And  again  —  why  not? 

His  imagination  caught  fire.  Details  crowded  into  his  brain. 
He  would  go  out  steerage,  of  course.  The  thing  must  be  done 
thoroughly.  And  he  would  take  merely  a  handful  of  capital 
such  as  most  emigrants  scrape  together  for  a  nest  egg  against 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  55 

very  rainy  days.  Beyond  that,  he  would  not  touch  his  allow 
ance.  He  would  learn  what  it  meant  for  a  man  to  make  his 
own  way  against  odds,  in  a  world  where  he  was  nothing  more 
than  so  much  raw  human  energy  and  capacity  to  be  hired  by 
the  week  or  the  month.  If  half  the  tales  one  heard  were  true, 
the  fact  that  he  was  of  gentle  birth  would  excite  no  particular 
suspicion  or  surprise.  Canada  and  Australia  were  full  of  Army 
and  University  men  who  had  gone  under,  either  through  ill 
fortune  or  ill  doing:  and  he  must  resign  himself  to  being  reckoned, 
a  fragment  of  that  lost  legion. 

A  passing  temptation  to  go  out  with  Bert  —  unknown,  of 
course,  to  any  one  but  Bert  —  was  promptly  thrust  aside. 
That  would  be  to  shirk  the  genuine  adventure;  to  make  an 
artificial  thing  of  it,  like  fancy  sliimming.  Also  —  there  was 
the  honour  of  Avonleigh;  dear  to  him  as  to  any  of  them,  in  spite 
of  Van's  velvety  scratch  about  a  nom  de  plume.  On  this  oc 
casion,  Van  need  feel  no  qualms.  The  nom  de  plume  was  an 
essential  part  of  his  equipment  — 

And  with  a  start  he  discovered  that  this  trifling  affair  of 
changing  his  name  was  the  most  distasteful  part  of  the  whole 
business.  He  had  as  little  self-love  in  him  as  any  young  man  of 
his  years:  but  he  found  —  with  a  touch  of  amused  dismay  — 
that  he  loved  his  own  name.  Its  link  with  the  inner  Derek  was 
vital;  and  he  felt  sure  he  would  never  answer  to  any  other. 
The  impulse  that,  hi  its  broad  aspect,  had  seemed  simple  enough, 
grew  more  complex  the  longer  he  looked  at  it  ... 

Suddenly,  through  the  fog  of  his  dilemma,  there  flashed  a 
happy  idea.  He  had  merely  to  knock  the  "o"  out  of  Blount 
—  and  his  name  was  shorn  of  its  link  with  his  father's  house. 
"Derek"  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  shed  at  any  price. 
From  the  moment  that  he  took  the  plunge  the  Honourable 
Derek  Ivo  Moray  Blount  would  become  plain  Derek  Blunt. 
He  felt  he  had  been  let  down  easily;  but  there  remained  the 
final  question  —  how  much  of  all  this  did  he  intend  to  tell  his 
father? 

He  was  a  clumsy  hand  at  mangling  the  truth.  Suppose  he 
made  a  valiant  effort  and  confessed  his  keen  wish  to  arrive  at  a 


56  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

more  intimate  knowledge  of  the  working  man's  character  and 
views?  Would  he  ever  succeed  in  making  them  understand? 

His  mother's  fastidious  sense  of  propriety  would  be  outraged. 
His  father  would  probably  shrivel  up  his  immature  arguments 
with  a  few  sarcastic  remarks.  Van  and  Ina  would  treat  him  to 
a  mild  flow  of  chaff.  At  best,  they  would  look  on  him  as  a 
harmless  lunatic.  At  worst,  they  would  suppose  him  infected 
with  the  rank  spirit  of  industrial  socialism,  in  which  case  he 
would  certainly  lose  his  temper  and  with  it  his  slender  chance 
of  a  fair  hearing. 

No:  he  supposed  he  was  a  coward;  but  he  did  not  feel  like 
facing  that  ordeal.  His  adventure  might  seem  no  more  to 
others  than  a  mere  boy's  prank;  an  excuse  to  elude  the  shackles 
as  long  as  he  could.  It  meant  a  great  deal  more  to  him.  Right 
or  wrong,  the  conviction  grew  —  while  he  sat  there  smoking 
and  dreaming  late  into  the  night  —  that  if  a  fair  percentage  of 
young  men  in  his  position  could  be  induced  to  spend  two  or 
three  years  of  early  manhood  knocking  round  the  world  in 
earnest  —  instead  of  knocking  about  town  and  sampling  con 
tinental  cities  —  there  might  yet  be  some  chance  of  restoring 
the  natural  alliance  between  peasant  and  landowner:  an  alliance 
undermined,  in  the  eighteenth  century,  by  callous  misuse  of 
power;  still  further  strained  when  the  wedge  of  mutual  distrust 
was  driven  in  at  a  vulnerable  point,  by  the  Radical  demagogue 
angling  for  votes;  and  snapped  outright  in  these  later  days  by 
the  absentee  landlord,  the  curse  of  the  country. 

For  all  his  youth  and  his  engaging  touch  of  Oxford  omni 
science,  Derek  was  no  mere  tyro  on  this  vital  question  that 
England  ignores  or  mishandles  at  her  peril.  He  had  been 
reared,  not  among  those  who  prattle  of  "The  Land'  at  dinner- 
tables  or  flourish  it  on  party  platforms,  but  among  those  who 
live  on  it  and  for  it,  whether  high  or  low.  At  Oxford,  he  had 
chosen  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  centuries  in  England  for 
his  special  period  of  history;  and  had  probed  deeper  into  his 
subject  to  gain  his  modest  Third  than  Van  had  done  to  secure 
the  Second  that  had  so  narrowly  missed  being  a  First.  Un 
questionably,  also,  he  owed  a  good  deal  to  his  friendship  with 


BEYOND  THE  SKYLINE  57 

that  keen  and  capable  young  landowner,  Mark  Forsyth.  If  he 
could  not  yet  see  more  than  a  few  facets  of  a  large  and  many- 
sided  subject,  he  had  the  root  of  the  matter  in  him.  He  loved 
the  land  —  pasture  and  arable,  moor  and  forest  and  billowing 
downs,  and  its  sturdy  inexpressive  people:  loved  it  all  for  its 
own  sake,  simply  because  it  was  England:  for  which  very  good 
reason  he  felt  impelled,  in  his  practical  fashion,  to  try  and  en 
large  his  understanding  and  widen  his  point  of  view. 

Could  he  have  poured  out  to  his  father,  naturally  and  simply, 
one-half  of  what  he  thought  and  felt  about  it  all,  matters  might 
have  taken  another  and  a  happier  turn  for  them  both.  But 
though  the  very  young  and  the  very  old  have  some  mysterious 
link  of  their  own,  the  gulf  between  youth  and  middle  age  is 
curiously  deep  and  wide,  only  to  be  spanned  by  certain  rare 
qualities  of  mind  and  heart.  Between  Derek  and  his  father 
was  no  bridge  of  understanding  secure  enough  to  tempt  the 
boy  across.  Nor  did  he  feel  competent,  as  yet,  to  express  the 
large,  vague  thoughts  that  were  moulding  his  character  and 
his  whole  future  life.  A  clumsy  half  attempt  at  explaining 
himself  would  be  worse  than  useless.  His  pride  refused  to 
chance  the  risk.  He  would  simply  state  his  wish  to  travel 
widely  for  a  few  years,  and  get  a  little  first-hand  knowledge  of 
the  Empire. 

He  did  not  look  forward  to  that  uncomfortable  half-hour: 
but  he  must  make  out  the  best  case  he  could  for  himself  and 
hope  to  escape  with  a  reprimand.  Jack  must  be  told,  of  course. 
The  good  fellow  would  laugh  at  him  and  quite  fail  to  see  the 
point.  But  in  Jack's  chaff  lurked  no  flavour  of  contempt,  such 
as  Derek  was  perhaps  too  ready  to  suspect  in  the  case  of  Van. 
The  one  person  with  whom  he  felt  really  eager  to  discuss  his 
notion  was  Mark,  whose  enthusiasm  would  not  fail  to  meet  him 
more  than  halfway;  and  Derek  was  one  of  those  difficult  people 
who  need  to  be  met  halfway  if  anything  like  intimacy  is  ever 
to  be  achieved. 

A  nuisance  that  the  Forsyths  were  in  Scotland.  But  October 
would  see  them  back  at  Wynchcombe  Friars  —  and  then  things 
would  really  get  a  move  on.  ... 


58  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

At  this  point  he  became  aware  that  his  pipe  had  gone  out  and 
that  his  brain  was  bemused  with  sleep  too  long  deferred.  He 
flung  up  his  arms;  yawned  extensively  and  glanced  with  a  shade 
less  disfavour  at  the  forbidding  double  bed.  Now  that  matters 
were  settled,  he  felt  better  satisfied  with  things  in  general  than 
he  had  done  for  some  time. 

Rather  odd,  he  reflected  sleepily,  as  he  turned  up  the  blue 
gas  jet  to  a  yellow  flare,  that  a  chance  meeting  with  Jack's 
sister  and  the  mishap  of  his  inappropriate  arrival  should,  be 
tween  them,  have  served  to  crystallize  a  decision  so  momentous 
to  himself,  so  entirely  disconnected  with  them.  The  Hinges, 
again!  And  as  his  head  sank  deep  into  his  pillow,  he  wondered 
—  still  more  sleepily  —  what  fresh  discoveries  and  failures  lay 
in  wait  for  him  behind  the  door  that  hung  upon  those  hinges  — 
just  temptingly  ajar? 

It  was  characteristic  of  Derek  that  he  practically  counted  on 
failure.  The  very  word  success  had  about  it  a  suggestion  of 
finality  that  weakened  its  appeal  to  one  who  was  an  adventurer 
at  heart. 


END   OP   BOOK  I 


BOOK  II 
UNTIL  THE  HARVEST 


BOOK  II 
UNTIL  THE  HARVEST 

CHAPTER  I 

With  the  same  measure  that  ye  mete,  it  shall  be  measured  to  you  again. 

ST.  LUKE 

DEREK'S  peculiar  fashion  of  considering  his  mother  was,  in 
the  circumstances,  very  much  to  the  point.  For  once  in  a  way 
he  had  done  precisely  what  she  would  have  had  him  do;  and 
whether  the  knowledge  would  have  given  him  more  pain  or 
satisfaction  it  were  hard  to  say.  His  jealousy  of  Van  would 
certainly  have  been  sharpened  could  he  have  trespassed  on  the 
privacy  of  her  thoughts  that  afternoon  as  she  drove  home  from 
her  fortnightly  visit  to  the  Cottage  Hospital. 

Of  all  her  duties,  as  great  lady  of  the  neighbourhood,  she 
found  this  one  the  greatest  bore.  But  it  was  a  social  point  of 
honour  to  keep  one's  engagements;  also,  she  believed  that  the 
'poor  dears'  would  miss  her  if  she  failed  to  turn  up.  But  to-day 
she  had  felt  almost  grateful  to  them  for  diverting  her  mind  a 
little  from  this,  the  first  serious  worry  that  had  troubled  the 
still  waters  of  her  life  since  Van  had  frightened  all  Avonleigh 
by  indulging  in  pneumonia  on  the  top  of  influenza  seven  years 
ago.  And  before  Van  was  himself  again,  she  too  had  suc 
cumbed  to  the  evil  thing,  that  had  left  her  a  little  deaf  and 
accentuated  a  tendency  to  nervous  heart  trouble  —  just  suffi 
ciently  pronounced  to  be  very  useful  on  occasion,  without  giving 
her  family  undue  cause  for  anxiety.  It  had  saved  her  from 
succumbing  to  that  smelly  and  terrifying  modern  infliction  — 
the  motor-car.  And  now  —  as  she  rolled  homeward  in  her 
victoria,  with  a  squirrel  rug  tucked  round  her  knees  —  there 
crept  into  her  mind  a  hope  that  it  might  save  her  from  the  still 
more  terrifying  prospect  of  five  years'  banishment  from  Eng 
land  and  Avonleigh  —  and  Van. 


62  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Of  course  the  appointment  was  flattering  to  Evan;  but  — 
her  plans  for  the  winter  were  practically  settled;  and  she  re 
sented,  almost  as  an  impertinence,  this  volcanic  intrusion  of  the 
unexpected  into  her  daily  round  of  pleasant,  foreseen  things. 
Really  it  was  most  inconsiderate  of  Lord  Fareham!  For  she 
didn't  at  all  like  the  thought  of  Evan  going  without  her;  but 
the  thought  of  going  with  him  she  liked  infinitely  less. 

He  had  not  said  a  word  about  it  before  he  started.  That 
was  so  like  him:  leaving  her  to  worry  out  alone,  with  never  a 
hint  of  his  own  wishes  to  help  her.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  felt 
uncomfortably  certain  that  he  would  expect  her  to  go;  and  she 
had  been  telling  herself  at  intervals  that  she  supposed  she  would 
go  —  when  it  came  to  the  point.  Even  now  she  was  still '  sup 
posing  ' ;  still  holding  off  the  inexorable  moment  when  she  could 
no  longer  sit  gracefully  on  the  fence  —  an  attitude  singularly 
convenient  for  herself  and  singularly  irritating  to  the  rest  of  her 
family.  .  .  . 

The  prospect  of  twenty-four  hours'  respite,  and  an  evening 
alone  with  Van,  was  balm  in  Gilead.  Rather  a  mercy  that 
Derek  had  delayed  his  return :  but  it  was  very  tiresome  of  him, 
not  to  let  them  know  where  he  was  or  exactly  when  they  might 
expect  him.  These  little  uncertainties  always  worried  her. 
He  knew  that  perfectly  well.  But  he  never  troubled  his  head 
about  any  one's  convenience  except  his  own.  He  had  all  the 
faults  of  this  graceless,  restless  new  century  that  was  rapidly 
making  the  world  an  impossible  place  for  decent,  quiet  people. 
London  —  social  London  —  was  already  'impossible':  and  even 
at  Avonleigh,  one  was  not  altogether  immune.  Derek  and  Ina 
—  in  their  utterly  different  fashions  —  brought  eddies  from  the 
modern  whirlpool  into  her  land-locked  harbour.  Derek,  with 
his  eternal  how  and  why;  his  uncomfortable  trick  of  seeing 
through  plausible  evasions;  Ina,  with  her  hard,  eager  pursuit 
of  all  that  was  newest  in  clothes  and  crazes  and  slang. 

Mercifully  dear  Van  was  enough  of  a  Barnard  to  have  escaped 
the  contagion.  He  was  so  well-mannered,  so  restful  and  con 
siderate  that  she  forgave  him  for  telling  her  so  little  really  about 
himself.  They  would  talk  things  over  to-night;  and  in  a  de- 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  63 

cently  veiled  corner  of  her  heart  lurked  the  hope  that  he  would 
fortify  her  own  slowly  gathering  resolve. 

On  reaching  home  she  found  him  in  the  hammock  still  asleep. 
His  mouth  had  dropped  open  a  little  —  not  unbecomingly; 
his  half-smoked  cigarette  had  fallen  and  singed  a  favourite 
Persian  rug.  Had  Derek  been  the  offender,  her  instant  sensa 
tion  would  have  been  pure  annoyance.  As  it  was,  she  merely 
thought:  "Poor  darling!  He  must  have  been  tired."  And  for 
a  few  moments  she  stood  watching  him  with  a  little,  tugging 
ache  at  her  heart. 

It  was  the  boy  she  still  saw,  rather  than  the  man  who  —  for 
all  his  affectionate  ways  —  had  been  slipping  insidiously  out  of 
reach  for  the  last  ten  years.  Asleep,  his  face  lost  the  imprint 
of  the  world  and  regained  its  innocent  serenity,  from  which 
purely  natural  phenomenon  she  gleaned  comfort,  in  view  of 
certain  fitful  speculations  about  wrhole  tracts  of  his  life  that  lay 
outside  her  ken.  She  liked  the  smooth  sweep  of  his  eyebrows; 
the  fastidious  curve  of  his  nostril,  rather  more  marked  than  her 
own;  the  long  lines  of  his  figure  and  small  aristocratic  head.  In 
effect  it  was  the  masculine  projection  of  herself  that  she  wor 
shipped  in  the  person  of  her  sleeping  son.  The  idea  of  leaving 
him  for  five  years  roused  in  her  the  strongest  emotion  of  which 
she  was  capable.  And  Evan  —  who  did  not  trouble  to  under 
stand  her  —  was  probably  taking  it  all  for  granted  up  there  in 
Town  — 

The  prosaic  dread  of  damp  disturbed  her  musings,  and  re 
luctantly  she  went  back  into  the  house. 

The  drawing-room  was  fragrant  with  the  faint,  sweet  scent 
of  late  roses,  and  a  footman  was  putting  fresh  logs  on  the  fire. 
It  was  a  lofty  room,  hung  with  French  and  English  water- 
colours.  Long  windows  heavily  curtained  looked  out  upon  the 
lawn.  A  portrait  of  herself,  in  grey  velvet  and  old  lace,  stood 
conspicuously  near  the  grand  piano.  It  was  still  fresh  enough 
to  give  her  a  small  shock  of  pleasure  whenever  she  looked  at  it. 
But  this  evening  her  gaze  dwelt  on  a  pastel  study  of  Van,  aged 
ten,  that  hung  above  her  inlaid  bureau.  She  wondered  how 


64  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

long  he  had  been  asleep  out  there.  A  dim  idea  that  he  was  not 
strong  dated  from  pneumonia  days.  Slipping  into  the  hall,  she 
carried  off  her  rug  and  laid  it  cautiously  over  Van.  After  that 
she  felt  happier. 

Presently,  with  her  maid's  assistance,  she  exchanged  her 
dress  for  a  silk  wrapper  and  settled  herself,  as  usual,  in  an 
invalid  chair  by  the  fire.  As  usual,  she  picked  up  a  novel 
lying  face  downwards  on  her  table;  and,  as  usual,  Powell 
discreetly  withdrew,  switching  off  the  dressing-table  light, 
leaving  only  the  shaded  glow  of  the  lamp  at  her  mistress's 
elbow. 

Lady  Avonleigh  was  not  an  imaginative  woman.  But  the 
morning's  shock  had  galvanized  into  activity  such  imagination 
as  she  possessed;  and  to-night  she  was  very  much  awrare  of  the 
stately  beauty  and  sheltered  peace  of  this  home  that  was  her 
bulwark  against  the  rising  tide  of  twentieth-century  unrest.  If 
she  agreed  to  go  out  with  Evan,  she  must  exchange  all  this  for 
the  dangers  and  instabilities  of  a  long  voyage;  for  'black  serv 
ants,'  whom  she  would  never  trust,  and  snakes  and  insects 
and  damp  .  .  . 

She  would  never  get  a  wink  of  sleep,  with  the  uncertainty 
hanging  over  her;  so  Van  was  to  be  her  touchstone;  and  it  was 
not  altogether  without  guile  that  she  chose  her  gown  of  velvet 
and  old  lace,  completing  the  effect  with  one  realistic  satin  pas 
sion  flower.  Van  noticed  such  things;  and,  in  her  heart,  she 
wanted  to  please  his  fastidious  eye;  to  make  him  feel  he  would 
miss  her  if  she  were  gone. 

He  did  notice  that  she  had  on  his  favourite  gown;  and  he 
thought:  "Poor  dear!  She's  badly  jarred.  She's  wearing  that 
top-hole  gown  for  a  kind  of  moral  support." 

He  had  enough  of  the  woman  in  him  to  understand  very  well 
the  mysterious  link  between  good  clothes  and  good  courage; 
but  her  real  reason  escaped  him  altogether. 

Dinner  was  very  much  as  Derek  had  imagined  it.  The  set 
ting  perfect  in  detail,  the  talk  negligible. 

Nothing  of  importance  could  be  said  while  the  small  butler 
and  the  tall  footman  hovered  in  the  penumbra,  like  benevolent 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  65 

birds  of  prey.  Jennings,  the  butler,  suffered  from  an  unorthodox 
twinkle  in  his  blue  eye,  which  he  tried  to  conceal  under  a  mask 
of  fierceness.  And  his  fierceness  to-night  was  phenomenal.  He 
knew  perfectly  well  there  was  'something  in  the  wind';  that  her 
ladyship  was  longing  to  'have  it  out  with  Mr.  Van.'  But  he 
dared  not  appear  to  hurry  the  sacred  rite  even  out  of  considera 
tion  for  her.  So  for  half  an  hour  she  made  trite  remarks  about 
the  weather  or  mutual  acquaintances;  and  Van  made  trite  re 
marks  about  the  food  and  criticized  the  shooting  of  his  friends 
in  the  North.  Then  the  door  closed  for  the  last  time  and  he 
applied  the  spirit-lighter  to  his  cigarette. 

"Shall  I  stay,  dear?"  she  asked.  Even  cigarettes  in  the 
drawing-room  were  taboo. 

Van  smiled  and  nodded;  and  they  moved  into  armchairs  by 
the  fire. 

"You're  feeling  pretty  worried,  I  expect,"  he  remarked  sym 
pathetically.  "Are  you  hoping,  sub  rosa,  that  it  will  come  to 
nothing?  " 

He  was  the  only  one  of  her  children  who  would  have  ventured 
such  a  remark:  and  she  shook  her  head  at  him  with  a  tolerant 
smile  of  reproach. 

"Father's  interests  must  be  one's  first  consideration." 

"That's  to  say,  you  aren't  violently  keen  yourself?" 

She  sighed  and  sipped  her  coffee.  "Well,  hardly,  dear,  at 
my  age,  and  in  my  uncertain  state  of  health.  I'm  a  bad  travel 
ler.  Entertaining  isn't  one  of  my  strong  points;  and  as  far  as 
I  can  gather  a  woman  of  position  in  India  does  very  little  else. 
The  question  is  —  with  all  these  drawbacks,  would  I  be  any  use 
to  your  father  out  there,  or  would  I  simply  add  to  his  worries 
and  anxieties?" 

Light  began  to  dawn  on  Van. 

"What  does  Father  think  about  it?" 

"/  don't  know.  Does  one  ever  really  get  at  what  he  thinks 
—  about  personal  things?" 

"It's  a  bit  of  a  problem  certainly.  But  you  can't  expect  him 
to  say  outright  that  you  wouldn't  be  much  use.  Perhaps  he's 
taking  it  for  granted  you'll  go." 


66  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"I'm  afraid  it's  more  like  that  he  hasn't  yet  thought  about 

—  me  at  all." 

Van  glanced  at  her  under  his  eyelids.  She  was  a  woman  who 
strictly  preserved  the  decent  reticences  of  home  life,  and  she 
had  never  spoken  so  of  his  father,  even  to  him.  Their  feeling 
for  each  other,  if  it  existed,  was  so  carefully  hidden  that  it  was 
difficult  to  imagine  they  had  ever  been  lovers.  Privately,  Van 
believed  they  never  had. 

"She  is  badly  jarred,"  he  thought  again,  and  the  conviction 
stirred  his  facile  sympathy.  But  her  rather  pathetic  remark 
was  not  easy  to  answer,  so  he  maintained  a  tactful  silence  and 
applied  himself  diligently  to  his  cigarette. 

She  leaned  forward  and  held  out  one  hand  to  the  blaze.  The 
light  made  pink  transparencies  of  her  long  thin  fingers,  and  the 
fact  that  they  were  not  quite  steady  made  them  look  still  more 
fragile.  Van  thought:  "She  really  isn't  strong  enough,  and 
she  wants  me  to  tell  her  so." 

Her  next  remark  confirmed  him. 

"How  do  you  feel  about  it  yourself,  dear?  I've  been  a  little 
better  this  summer;  but  then  —  that  heart  attack  last  month 

—  and  the  Bombay  climate  is  so  trying.    Is  it  better  to  take 
the  risk  than  to  fail  him?    Or  would  it  really  be  unfair  on  him 

—  and  you?    It  is  hard  to  know  what's  best  for  every  one  all 
round.    Do  tell  me  candidly  what  you  think." 

Van  was  silent  a  moment,  caressing  his  moustache  and  noting 
the  queer  upward  shadows  of  the  firelight  on  her  face.  His 
candid  opinion  was  the  last  gift  he  was  likely  to  bestow  on  any 
one  —  least  of  all  on  her. 

"I  think,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  it's  very  hard  on  you 
being  suddenly  faced  with  such  a  big  decision  when  you're 
so  far  from  strong.  Still,  it  would  be  rough  on  Father 
going  without  you.  As  a  Governor,  he  must  have  some  sort 
of  hostess." 

"Yes.  That's  the  difficulty,"  she  began;  and  suddenly  he 
had  an  idea. 

"Of  course  there's  Aunt  Marion.  She  knows  India  and 
she's  A  i  at  that  sort  of  thing  — " 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  67 

Her  gasp  of  relief  was  irrepressible.  Marion  Blount  was  her 
husband's  favourite  sister:  unmarried:  the  very  person  — ! 

"My  dear  Van,  how  clever  of  you!  It  would  take  such  a 
load  off  my  mind.  Aunt  Marion  is  so  capable,  and  they  are 
the  best  of  friends — " 

"Perhaps  Father  had  her  in  his  mind,"  Van  waxed  bolder, 
seeing  he  had  made  a  happy  shot.  "He  probably  thought 
things  would  be  easier  for  you  if  he  found  out  first  about  her. 
After  all,  suppose  anything  went  seriously  wrong  with  you, 
the  extra  worry  and  anxiety  wotdd  come  hard  on  him.  But  , 
it's  for  you  —  not  for  Father — to  say  that  sort  of  thing  —  isn't 
it?" 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  she  agreed  with  alacrity.  "How 
stupid  of  me!  It  was  very  thoughtful  of  your  father.  .  .  . 
And  you  really  feel  my  going  would  be  inadvisable  —  on  his 
account,  as  well  as  my  own?" 

"Looks  like  it,  doesn't  it,  all  things  considered?" 

He  thought  he  might  be  speaking  the  truth;  and  he  knew 
very  well  it  was  what  she  wanted  him  to  say.  So  —  being  Van 
—  he  said  it.  That  was  his  peculiar  fashion  of  giving  a  candid 
opinion;  and  it  was  one  of  the  secrets  of  his  popularity  — 
which  he  also  knew  very  well.  To-night  it  gave  him  particular 
satisfaction;  for  he  was  fond  of  his  mother  and,  on  the  whole, 
he  would  rather  she  stayed  at  home. 

She  had  risen,  now,  and  laid  a  light  hand  on  his  hair.  "What 
a  comfort  you  are,  Van,"  she  said  softly.  "I  knew  things 
would  come  straight  if  I  could  talk  them  out  with  you." 

And  Van  thought:  "Lucky  old  Dirks  went  off  in  a  huff.  He 
would  have  been  most  infernally  in  the  way." 

Later  on,  he  played  to  her  a  little.  He  had  a  sympathetic 
touch  and  picked  up  light  music  easily  by  ear.  And  she  pre 
tended  to  read  the  Court  Circular  column,  because  it  wouldn't 
do  to  let  him  guess  the  immensity  of  her  relief. 

Yet  she  had  once  honestly  cared  for  her  husband;  and  in  her 
colourless  fashion  she  still  cared  for  him  enough  to  wish  — 
quite  perversely  —  that  he  should  need  her  a  little  more  than  he 
appeared  to  do.  No  doubt  Van  was  right.  He  probably  had 


68  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Marion  in  his  mind;  and  she  had  made  herself  miserable  for 
nothing.  So,  instinctively,  she  drew  fresh  worries  even  from 
the  well-spring  of  her  relief. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  she  would  have  found  life  distinctly  dull 
without  her  tame  menagerie  of  minor  frets  and  grievances. 
But  she  drew  the  line  at  major  ones;  and  it  was  distinctly  a 
major  one  that  they  none  of  them  really  seemed  to  want  her 
—  not  even  Van.  He  had  not  said  he  would  mind  her  going 
or  that  he  was  glad  of  her  decision.  No  one  seemed  to  suppose 
she  needed  that  sort  of  thing;  yet  in  secret  she  hungered  for  it, 
and  never  dreamed  that  she  was  simply  reaping  as  she  had 
sown. 

It  was  the  same  with  her  husband.  She  had  let  him  grad 
ually  drift  away  from  her  without  raising  a  ringer  to  avert  the 
calamity:  and  there  were  moments  —  as  to-night  —  when  she 
felt,  with  a  sudden  pang,  how  lonely  she  was  behind  the  ram 
part  of  her  dignity  and  decent  reticences  and  the  Morning 
Post.  It  did  not  strike  her  that  Evan  might  sometimes  feel 
lonely  too.  He  had  his  intellectual  interests,  his  own  menagerie 
of  worries,  which  he  no  longer  shared  with  her.  True,  it  was 
her  misfortune  that  she  could  not  mentally  keep  pace  with  him 
or  her  sons.  But  she  had  to  pay  the  price  of  disability,  which 
is  often  quite  as  heavy  as  the  price  of  sin. 

She  had  lost  Derek  on  the  day  that  he  asked  for  bread  and 
received  a  stone.  Ina,  she  could  scarcely  be  said  to  have  found 
at  all.  Even  in  nursery  days  her  only  daughter  had  been  a  hard 
little  separate  entity;  a  creature  who  put  forth  no  tendrils:  in 
effect,  a  shallow  miniature  edition  of  her  father.  So,  where 
Lady  Avonleigh  might  have  succeeded,  small  chance  had  been 
given  her.  And  even  with  her  adored  Van  she  had  never 
established  anything  like  real  confidence  or  intimacy. 

In  her  very  hidden  heart  she  was  mortally  envious  of  Lady 
Forsyth,  to  whom  she  gave  no  credit  for  the  fact  she  was  ob 
viously  a  friend,  as  well  as  a  mother,  to  her  sons.  Instead, 
she  wondered,  disconsolately,  what  was  wrong  with  her  own 
boys  that  they  should  be  so  different. 

It  was  not  in  her  to  perceive  the  difference  between  mother 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  69 

love  and  mere  maternal  Instinct  that  wears  thinner  with  each 
year.  For  she  did  not  know  —  and  now  would  never  learn  — 
that  all  progressive  love,  like  progressive  life,  is  by  death;  that 
the  divine  dictum,  "  man  must  die  to  live,"  is  no  arbitrary  decree, 
but  a  fundamental  law  of  life  and  growth. 

Only  now  and  again  she  felt  oppressed  by  a  vague  conscious 
ness  of  failure  all  round  in  her  home  relations;  and  the  woman 
who  fails  in  these  is  in  as  deplorable  a  case  as  a  man  who  fails  in 
his  profession. 

After  Van  had  finished  playing  they  talked  fitfully  of  trivial 
things.  But  his  good-night  kiss  when  she  rose  —  on  the  stroke 
of  ten  —  was  less  perfunctory  than  usual. 

"Buck  up,  dear,  and  don't  worry,"  he  said  kindly.  "Father 
would  be  the  last  person  to  let  you  run  any  risks.  If  Aunt 
Marion  goes  with  him,  you'll  both  be  satisfied." 

"And  —  you?"  she  ventured,  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

His  smile  was  half  tender,  half  amused.  "Well,  naturally 
—  the  answer  is  in  the  affirmative!" 

And  with  that  she  had  to  rest  content. 


CHAPTER  II 

Les  drames  delaviene  sont  pas  dans  les  cir Constances.    Us  sent  dans  le  cceur. 

BALZAC 

LORD  AVONLEIGH'S  return  next  day  put  an  end  to  any  lurking 
hope  that  the  whole  thing  might  fall  through.  He  arrived 
early  in  the  afternoon:  a  wiry  man  of  middle  height,  with  thin 
lips  and  clear  keen  eyes  under  Derek's  eave-like  brows.  The 
strongly  modelled  nose  and  chin  jutted  also  to  correspond.  It 
was  the  face  of  a  man  vigorous  in  action,  withdrawn  in  spirit. 
The  eyes  under  their  cavernous  eye-bones  had  a  hawk-like 
gleam:  and  in  anger  or  argument  his  brain  had  a  hawk-like 
swoop,  very  disconcerting  to  the  victim  of  the  moment.  With 
a  man  of  the  world's  outlook  and  knowledge  he  combined  the 
hidden  idealism  of  the  Englishman  and  the  mental  fibre  of  the 
Scot:  a  fine  if  formidable  trinity.  And  it  would  be  hard  to  say 
whether  his  uncompromising  rectitude  or  his  sardonic  humour 
made  him  the  more  difficult  to  live  with. 

"Yes,  I'm  going.  It's  all  fixed  up,"  he  announced,  answer 
ing  the  question  that  hovered  in  his  wife's  eyes,  when  at  last 
they  were  alone  in  the  drawing-room. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  while  he  stood  upon  the 
hearth-rug,  letting  his  glance  wander  from  object  to  object, 
giving  his  announcement  tune  to  soak  in.  Then,  turning  to 
Van,  he  recounted  the  gist  of  his  long  talk  with  Lord  Wyntoun, 
who  had  made  it  quite  clear  to  him  that  the  Bombay  appoint 
ment,  in  the  present  state  of  affairs,  would  be  no  bed  of  roses. 
In  fact  if  the  Government  didn't  take  a  firmer  stand  shortly, 
they  would  have  the  fat  in  the  fire. 

Van  listened  patiently,  with  his  admirable  air  of  polite  in 
terest:  and  Lady  Avonleigh  sat  silent,  waiting  for  something 
more  personal  to  emerge  from  all  this  irrelevance.  That  was 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  71 

what  made  Evan  so  distracting.  He  would  talk  by  the  yard 
about  things  that  nobody  wanted  to  hear:  yet  if  one  questioned 
him  about  really  important  details,  one  would  be  extinguished 
on  the  spot.  She  could  say  nothing,  of  course,  while  Van  was 
there;  but  with  the  appearance  of  the  tea-tray  he  tactfully 
effaced  himself,  catching  her  eye  as  he  went. 

She  thought,  with  a  glow  of  pride,  "How  perfectly  he  does 
these  little  things!"  And,  after  all,  skill  in  just  those  little 
things  goes  far  to  make  the  livableness  of  life. 

Lord  Avonleigh  further  delayed  matters  by  asking  for  a 
whiskey  and  soda  instead  of  tea. 

Not  till  he  had  poured  it  out  and  settled  himself  in  his  deep 
chair  did  she  launch  the  tremendous  question: 

"  Evan  —  how  soon?  " 

"Well,  as  soon  as  possible.  Fareham's  in  a  bad  way;  and  I 
would  like  to  be  on  the  spot  when  he  sails.  I  said  —  three 
weeks.  Personally,  I  could  manage  it  sooner,  but  I  knew  you'd 
want  time  to  turn  round." 

She  stifled  a  faint  gasp  of  dismay.  He  heard  it  and  gave  her 
one  of  his  quick  looks. 

"I  don't  want  to  hustle  you,  my  dear.  Isn't  three  weeks 
long  enough  to  collect  the  indispensable  clothes  and  medicines 
and  patent  preventives?  " 

Van  was  wrong,  hopelessly  wrong.  But  how  could  she  slip 
gracefully  off  the  fence  if  Evan  was  going  to  talk  like  that? 
Her  heart  was  jerking  unevenly  and  her  hands  were  cold.  If 
he  would  only  see! 

But  he  was  looking  at  the  picture  of  Van  over  her  bureau; 
and  he  did  not  even  seem  to  notice  the  gap  of  silence  between 
his  question  and  her  tentative  reply. 

"It  isn't  the  shopping  and  the  packing  that  upsets  one.  It's 
the  —  the  wrench  — " 

"Of  course  it's  a  wrench."  This  time  he  did  not  look  at  her. 
"I  never  thought  I  should  leave  the  old  place  again  for  any 
length  of  time.  And  I  don't  half  like  it  —  for  many  reasons. 
But  Wyntoun  rubbed  it  into  me  that  I'm  the  man  they  want 
out  there  now.  And  the  money  wouldn't  come  amiss." 


72  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"But,  Evan  —  the  climate  —  "  she  began. 

"And  the  mosquitoes  and  the  white  ants!"  he  took  her  up 
with  his  baffling  half-smile.  "It's  possible  we  may  survive 
them  all  in  Government  House.  The  complete  change  will  do 
you  no  end  of  good.  Enlarge  your  mind  all  round.  Bombay's 
a  vastly  interesting  place,  Esther.  Indian  women  there  worth 
knowing,  as  well  as  our  own  people.  Marion  envies  you.  She  '11 
help  you  all  she  can.  I  told  her  to  come  along  down  to-mor 
row  and  get  you  going.  Rather  a  good  idea  if  she  went  out 
with  us  for  the  cold  wreather.  She  could  put  you  in  the  way  of 
things  —  " 

He  broke  off  with  a  start,  for  his  wife's  teaspoon  clattered 
against  her  cup,  and  her  hand  shook  so  that  the  cup  overturned, 
sending  a  cascade  of  hot  tea  into  her  lap.  Any  kind  of  awk 
wardness  was  so  unlike  her  that  Lord  Avonleigh  was  taken 
aback. 

"My  dear  Esther!"  he  exclaimed:  and  before  her  shaking 
fingers  could  find  a  handkerchief  he  had  produced  his  own  and 
was  kneeling  on  the  hearth-rug  dabbing  her  skirt. 

"Very  clumsy  of  me,"  she  murmured. 

"But  you're  never  clumsy,"  he  said.  "And  you're  shaking 
like  a  leaf." 

His  searching  look  drew  the  unwilling  blood  into  her  cheeks; 
and  before  she  could  speak  the  words,  so  carefully  planned  in 
advance,  she  knew  there  was  no  need  for  them. 

"I  —  see,"  he  said  slowly  in  a  changed,  hard  voice.  "You 
don't  intend  to  go.  I  was  making  things  awkward  for  you  — 
I  apologize." 

He  had  risen  from  his  knees  —  carefully  because  of  rheu 
matism;  and  he  stood  there,  looking  down  at  her  writh  what 
Derek  called  his  '  shut-up  face.' 

Sheer  relief  that  the  truth  was  out  helped  her  to  regain  her 
lost  control. 

"No,  Evan,"  she  protested.  "You  don't  really  see.  It's 
not  a  case  of  'intending.'" 

"It  never  is  —  when  we  follow  our  own  desires." 

He  saw  her  wince  without  compunction.    He  could  be  un- 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  73 

merciful  when  hurt  or  angered;  and  at  the  moment  he  was 
both. 

She  drew  herself  up,  stung  by  his  tone. 

"You  are  unfair  —  and  unkind.  I  suppose  you  won't  be 
lieve  —  now  —  that  I've  been  worrying  myself  to  death  to 
know  which  way  would  be  best  —  for  you."  (In  the  misery 
and  confusion  of  the  moment  she  imagined  she  was  speaking  the 
truth.)  "It's  not  as  if  I  were  a  young  woman  in  robust  health. 
You  know  perfectly  well  — 

"I  know  perfectly  well,"  he  said,  with  his  deadly  quietness, 
"  that  your  many  ailments  —  real  and  fanciful  —  have  never 
yet  hindered  you  from  doing  what  you  are  keen  about." 

"You  imply  that  I  am  that  detestable  thing  —  a  malade 
imaginaire?" 

"I  don't  deal  in  implications.  The  truth  is  that  when  a 
disagreeable  duty  comes  your  way,  you  work  yourself  up  till 
you  really  are  ill  —  or  very  near  it.  Look  —  you're  shaking 
still.  Have  another  cup  of  tea  and  don't  bother  any  more 
about  Bombay.  I  can  take  Marion.  She'll  jump  at  the  offer. 
But  I  naturally  thought  you  might  like  to  come  —  if  only  for 
part  of  the  time." 

His  reasonableness  pricked  her  to  sudden  penitence. 

"Of  course  I  would,  Evan,  in  some  ways;  but  — " 

He  silenced  her  with  a  gesture,  and  pointed  at  her  disfigured 
skirt. 

"  That  is  your  real  answer.  A  woman  never  knows  when  she 
has  said  enough.  Now  get  on  with  your  tea." 

Her  hand  had  so  pathetic  a  tremor  that  he  quietly  took  the 
teapot  from  her  and  filled  the  cup  himself,  adding  milk  and 
sugar  exactly  to  her  taste.  Van  could  not  have  done  it  better. 
It  was  these  apparent  contradictions  in  her  husband  that  so 
often  puzzled  her  and  sometimes  shamed  her  —  as  now.  He 
would  stab  her  with  his  tongue  under  provocation,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  salve  the  wound  he  had  made  with  some  quietly 
courteous  action. 

"There  —  the  worst's  over.  I'm  not  going  to  drag  you  out 
by  the  hair  of  your  head."  He  gravely  handed  her  a  plate  of 


74  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

sandwiches,  then  sat  down  as  before,  and  emptied  his  tumbler. 
"Will  you  allow  me  one  cigarette?" 

"Of  course." 

"Thanks.     I'm  tired." 

He  leaned  back  and  stretched  out  his  legs,  regarding  her 
with  his  odd  half-smile  —  whimsical,  inscrutable.  "I've  a  good 
few  problems  to  worry  over,  too.  Things  started  here  and  there; 
and  I  shan't  be  able  to  see  them  through.  Also  there  are  my 
household  appointments  to  make  —  out  there.  Naturally  I 
should  like  Van  for  my  Private  Secretary.  He's  had  good 
training,  and  he'd  be  useful  in  the  social  line.  I  thought  you 
two  would  work  well  together." 

She  put  down  her  teacup  rather  suddenly. 

"Are  you  going  ...  to  take  him?"  she  asked  in  a  toneless 
voice,  carefully  controlled. 

"I  should  like  to,  of  course.  It  would  be  a  comfort  to  have 
one  member  of  my  family  with  me." 

He  knew  quite  well  that  she  was  on  thorns;  perhaps  regret 
ting  her  own  withdrawal.  But  all  things  considered,  he  felt 
she  deserved  it.  He  even  took  a  wicked  pleasure  in  balancing 
the  pros  and  cons. 

"That  would  mean  —  shutting  up  Avonleigh?"  Her  ques 
tion  was  addressed  to  the  middle  button  of  his  waistcoat. 

"Yes.     Or  letting  it.     That's  one  of  the  drawbacks." 

"Rather  a  big  one,  isn't  it?" 

"'M — yes.    But  would  Van  care  to  live  here  in  any  case?" 

"Would  he  care  to  spend  five  years  out  of  England?"  she 
countered,  desperate,  but  controlled. 

"You  mean  —  you  wouldn't  care  about  it,"  he  corrected  her 
with  perfect  suavity. 

"I  said  'Van,'  Evan." 

He  discerned  a  faint  challenge  in  her  tone,  and  his  thin  lips 
twitched  under  his  moustache. 

"It's  six  of  Van  and  half  a  dozen  of  you  as  far  as  India  goes. 
The  Empire  means  precious  little  to  either  of  you.  It's  my 
one  real  quarrel  with  Van.  Five  years  of  Bombay  would  be  a 
liberal  education  for  you  both.  But  you  needn't  be  afraid. 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  75 

(You  were  —  mortally  —  three  minutes  ago.)  He  'd  vote  for 
London  and  Avonleigh  if  I  put  it  to  him.  But  I'm  not  going 
to  put  it  to  him." 

He  saw  relief  flow  through  her  like  a  warm  cordial.  The 
fingers  that  grasped  an  arm  of  her  chair  slackened,  and  she 
helped  herself  to  another  sandwich.  Watching  her  under 
his  lids,  he  thought:  "Poor  Esther!  She  was  hard  hit.  But 
she  can  stand  up  to  it  —  when  she  chooses." 

Aloud  he  said:  "However,  if  he  stays  at  home,  he  must  put 
his  back  into  looking  after  Avonleigh.  I  shall  give  him  special 
powers.  Make  him  fully  responsible  for  things.  He's  hardly 
had  enough  of  that  so  far.  Malcolm's  invaluable;  but  still  — 
much  as  I  should  enjoy  having  the  boy  with  me,  I  think  it's 
advisable  that  one  of  us  should  remain  on  the  spot." 

"Yes,  I  do  think  that's  a  very  important  consideration,"  she 
agreed,  with  guarded  alacrity;  and  he  smiled  at  the  toes  of  his 
outstretched  boots. 

"Also  —  a  very  convenient  one.  But  I'm  glad  we're  agreed 
on  one  point  at  least!" 

Soon  after  that  he  left  her;  and  as  the  door  closed  behind 
him  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  exhausted  with  the  strain  of 
it  all,  yet  immeasurably  relieved. 

Twenty  minutes  later  he  was  in  the  saddle  —  the  finest  arm 
chair  in  the  world;  his  London  attire  exchanged  for  rough 
tweeds,  leggings  and  a  faded  felt  hat:  a  very  old  friend  to  which 
he  clung  obstinately  in  spite  of  fitful  remonstrances  from  his 
wife. 

He  had  decided,  on  impulse,  to  ride  over  to  Ashbourne  and 
see  what  progress  they  were  making  with  his  new  model  alms- 
houses.  Would  he  ever  see  them  completed? 

The  crisp,  clean  September  air,  the  rhythmic  movement  and 
the  restful  companionship  of  the  sensitive  creature  he  rode, 
magically  removed  all  trace  of  weariness  from  his  body  and 
brain.  The  jar  of  his  wife's  defection  had  made  him  unpleas 
antly  aware  that  the  last  two  days  had  been  more  of  a  strain 
than  they  had  any  business  to  be  for  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life 
—  and  health.  He  would  have  given  much  to  feel  quite  at 


76  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

ease  about  that  last.  It  was  his  confirmed  opinion  —  shared 
by  many  strong  men  —  that  doctors  were  mostly  fools.  But 
they  could  be  very  disquieting  fools  —  on  occasion;  as  he  had 
discovered  yesterday  afternoon.  It  would  never  do,  though, 
for  a  man  to  let  himself  be  hamstrung  by  the  cryptic  stuff  they 
were  paid  to  talk.  The  poor  devils  had  to  earn  their  livelihood; 
and  Lord  Avonleigh's  private  conviction  was  that  he  had  been 
robbed  of  three  guineas,  in  all  good  faith,  by  an  honest  but 
deluded  physician.  Wiry  and  virile,  he  had  reached  the  merid 
ian  of  life  with  nothing  worse  than  an  accident  or  two,  and  a 
solitary  illness  to  mar  his  clean  bill  of  health.  Only  during  the 
last  few  years  rheumatism  had  laid  stealthy  hands  upon  him; 
and  sensations  of  pain  and  heaviness,  where  none  should  be, 
warned  him  intermittently  that  vital  parts  of  the  little-regarded 
inner  machinery  were  out  of  gear. 

At  first  this  had  made  him  nervous  and  uncomfortable,  as 
healthy  men  are  apt  to  become  at  the  first  whisper  of  disease. 
But  he  had  despised  himself  and  had  lived  the  thing  down. 
One  invalid  in  the  family  was  trouble  enough;  and  Esther  had 
established  a  monopoly  in  that  line.  Once  or  twice  he  had 
spoken  to  her  casually  on  the  subject,  and  threatened  to  trespass 
on  her  preserves.  Farrar,  the  family  doctor,  had  spoken  also; 
for  the  which  liberty  Lord  Avonleigh  had  never  forgiven  him. 

Remembering  these  things,  he  found  himself  wondering  .  .  . 
had  it  even  occurred  to  Esther  that,  of  the  two,  he  had  the  more 
reason  to  shrink  from  five  years  of  Bombay,  plus  hard  work  and 
heavy  responsibility.  In  the  light  of  her  refusal  to  accompany 
him,  he  saw  her  wifely  concern  of  yesterday  morning,  and  her 
talk  about  avoiding  risks,  as  no  more  than  a  tactful  indication 
that  she,  at  least,  would  be  wise  enough  to  avoid  anything  of 
the  kind.  Possibly  he  wronged  her.  And  very  certainly  he 
was  a  fool  to  have  expected  anything  else.  But  he  had  re 
turned  home  tired,  acutely  aware  of  the  coming  wrench;  and 
being  only  human,  he  had  hoped,  in  the  teeth  of  experience,  for 
the  support  of  her  wifely  approval.  He  had  hoped  to  enlist  her 
interest  by  talking  things  out  more  fully  than  was  his  wont. 
But  the  very  manner  of  her  greeting  had  jarred;  and  before  he 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  77 

could  make  any  real  headway  the  truth  was  out :  all  his  hardness 
and  bitterness  up  in  arms. 

After  twenty-eight  years  of  life  with  her,  he  might  have 
known  —  ! 

Always,  at  difficult  corners,  when  the  real  man  in  him  had 
reached  out  to  the  real  woman  in  her,  she  had  most  signally 
failed  him:  and  she  never  seemed  to  be  aware  of  the  fact. 
Therein  lay  the  tragedy  —  for  herself  and  for  him. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  Lord  Avonleigh's  dependence  upon 
any  human  being  was  easily  discernible.  There  ran  through 
his  whole  nature  an  aloof,  impersonal  streak,  which  he  had 
passed  on,  in  a  measure,  to  his  second  son:  yet  under  the  surface, 
in  both,  the  natural  need  was  there.  Other  women  had  dis 
cerned  it  —  which  did  not  exactly  meet  the  case.  But  Esther 
Avonleigh  —  a  mild,  unaggressive  egoist  —  had  small  gift  for 
reading  between  the  lines.  For  all  that,  he  did  not  doubt  her 
affection  —  or  his  own.  Though  love,  as  an  active  emotion, 
could  scarcely,  now,  be  said  to  exist  between  them,  it  had  once 
been  there.  At  seven-and-twenty  how  arrogantly  certain  he 
had  been  of  his  own  heart  and  his  own  wisdom !  How  hotly  he 
had  resented  his  mother's  opposition  which  had  unconsciously 
precipitated  the  very  crisis  she  sought  to  prevent.  Now,  in  his 
hardly  earned  wisdom,  he  wondered  whether  a  good  few  mis 
taken  marriages  were  not  so  made. 

But  he  was  not  addicted  to  futile  burrowings  into  the  past. 
The  present  demanded  his  utmost  attention,  his  utmost  energy; 
and  the  necessity  for  speeding-up  all  round  braced  him  to  spurn 
unauthorized  aches  and  pains. 

His  dinner  with  Wyntoun  had  fairly  extinguished  that  de 
luded  specialist.  The  two  men  were  at  once  old  friends  and 
old  political  adversaries;  and  of  late  years  they  had  drifted 
apart.  While  Lord  Wyntoun  had  been  drawn  deeper  into  the 
political  ferment,  Lord  Avonleigh  had  retired  from  an  atmo 
sphere  of  barren  controversy  and  intrigue,  thoroughly  uncon 
genial  to  him  as  a  patriot  and  a  man.  He  could  not  bring  himself 
either  to  idealize  'politics  of  the  pavement,'  or,  for  the  sake  of 
preferment,  to  profess  a  faith  that  was  not  in  him. 


78  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"I  don't  disbelieve  in  the  people  —  far  from  it,"  he  had 
written  to  Wyntoun,  in  justification  of  his  attitude.  "I  merely 
maintain  that  the  whole  people,  and  nothing  but  the  people, 
spells  national  collapse.  Crowd  mentality  and  crowd  morality 
—  what  are  they  but  mind  and  morals  reduced  to  their  lowest 
common  measure?  And  democracy  rampant  is  crowd  morality 
in  excelsis;  the  apotheosis  of  officialdom  and  inefficiency.  I 
regard  it  as  a  fever  from  which  the  real  England  may  yet  re 
cover  —  in  due  time." 

Naturally  Wyntoun  disagreed  with  him,  and  liked  him  none 
the  less  for  that. 

Meantime,  while  the  fever  raged,  Lord  Avonleigh  quietly 
stood  aside  and  devoted  himself,  in  his  practical  unsentimental 
fashion,  to  the  interests  of  his  own  share  of  England's  popula 
tion  on  both  estates.  He  seldom  used  his  seat  in  the  upper 
House  these  days,  and  still  more  seldom  spoke,  except  on  Im 
perial  affairs  or  to  plead  the  unpopular  cause  of  '  the  Land '  — 
the  whole  land,  forest,  field  and  pasture  —  a  subject  he  had 
made  peculiarly  his  own.  The  same  impersonal  streak  that 
isolated  him  in  his  home  had  kept  him  independent  of  party 
shackles  and  party  claims;  with  the  natural  result  that  he  was 
respected  in  both  camps;  popular  in  neither.  He  believed  in 
the  British  Empire;  he  was  admittedly  sound  on  social  reform; 
and  his  worst  enemies  could  not  impugn  his  integrity,  his  sanity, 
or  his  breadth  of  view. 

Hence  Lord  Wyntoun's  bolt  from  the  blue.  He  could  have 
paid  his  friend  no  higher  compliment,  of  which  that  same  friend 
was  very  well  aware. 

Nevertheless  he  could  not  pretend  to  relish  the  prospect  of 
five  years'  banishment  from  Avonleigh  and  his  wife  and  Van. 
Mercifully  he  could  rely  on  Marion,  who  would  be  much  more 
capable  than  Esther  as  helpmate  and  hostess  at  Government 
House.  He  had  a  very  real  affection  for  his  only  sister  and  a 
pleasant  remembrance  of  their  tour  through  India  shortly  after 
his  mother's  death;  a  tour  that  had  been  more  than  a  mere 
orgy  of  scenery  and  ancient  cities  and  big  game.  By  keeping 
his  wits  alert,  he  had  perceived  much  and  inferred  more.  He 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  79 

had  made  several  distinguished  acquaintances  of  both  races  and 
had  kept  in  close  touch  with  the  country  ever  since. 

Even  in  those  days,  when  distrust  was  heresy,  he  had  deeply 
distrusted  German  missionaries,  German  traders,  and  exalted 
German  travellers  in  search  of  sport.  He  knew  very  well  that 
affairs  out  there  were  more  critical  than  the  India  Office  cared 
to  admit;  that  he  would  have  to  curb  his  incisive  tongue  and 
walk  warily  like  a  cat  among  bits  of  broken  glass.  And  the 
knowledge  stimulated  him.  He  rose  to  a  difficult  occasion  like 
a  thoroughbred  to  a  five-barred  gate;  and  if  he  must  leave 
Avonleigh,  he  liked  nothing  better  than  administrative  work. 
He  had  enjoyed  his  fair  share  of  it  in  Bermuda  and  New  South 
Wales ;  and  he  was  fortunate  —  under  a  Radical  regime  —  to 
get  another  chance.  He  could  pull  through  the  five  years  with 
reasonable  care;  and  when  they  were  over,  he  would  relish 
more  than  ever  the  abiding  charm  of  this  his  own  corner  of 
England  that  was  like  a  part  of  himself;  dearer  to  him  almost 
than  any  living  being  except  the  son  for  whom  he  held  it  in 
trust.  .  .  . 

He  spent  a  satisfactory  half-hour  in  going  over  his  model 
almshouses:  and  a  little  before  sunset  he  cantered  homeward 
through  the  mellow  stillness  that  brooded  like  an  enchantment 
on  moor  and  wood  and  field. 

Before  him  loomed  the  pine-clad  curve  of  Burnt  Hill,  fretting 
the  gold  like  the  teeth  of  a  saw.  On  either  side  of  him  was 
open  country,  and  in  the  flood  of  level  light  solitary  trees  seemed 
to  stand  spell-bound,  holding  their  breath.  In  shadowy  cop 
pices  they  huddled  together  like  conspirators  awaiting  the 
given  moment.  Unshadowed  fields  opened  their  hearts  to  the 
splendour  and  the  silence;  for  there  was  no  sound  anywhere 
but  the  rhythm  of  Royal's  hoof-beats  and  the  occasional  flutter 
of  an  unseen  bird.  The  whole  earth  was  saturated  with  peace. 
Qualms  and  anxieties  were  mysteriously  spirited  away.  .  .  . 

Nearing  the  great  gates,  he  spied  another  solitary  figure 
ahead  of  him  on  the  road:  a  figure  with  square-set  shoulders, 
swinging  along  at  a  steady  pace.  For  a  while  he  watched  it 


8o  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

abstractedly  with  the  wistful  envy  of  middle  age  for  the  bound 
less  energy  of  youth.  Then  recognition  flashed  on  him. 

Where  on  earth  had  the  boy  sprung  from?  Had  Esther,  in 
her  perturbation,  forgotten  to  mention  his  return?  And  sud 
denly  he  had  an  inspiration  —  Why  not  Derek? 

He  recognized  it,  almost  at  once,  as  a  counsel  of  despair. 
Derek  was  too  young,  too  unsocial,  too  little  amenable.  Still, 
he  clung  to  the  idea.  He  felt  a  secret  reluctance  —  which 
would  never  have  been  suspected  by  his  family  —  to  face  five 
years'  banishment  uncompanioned  by  son,  daughter,  or  wife. 
And  he  slackened  speed  to  debate  the  matter  with  himself. 

After  all,  Derek  had  brains  and  character,  and  a  wider  range 
of  interests  than  Van.  He  might  very  well  develop  into  a 
capable  Private  Secretary.  But  —  what  would  he  himself 
have  to  say  to  it? 

Lord  Avonleigh  admitted  that  he  had  not  the  ghost  of  an 
idea.  And  the  admission  brought  home  to  him,  with  unpleas 
ant  force,  how  little  trouble  he  had  taken  to  make  the  acquaint 
ance  of  his  own  son.  Well  —  here  at  any  rate  was  a  chance  of 
getting  to  close  quarters  with  the  boy.  Whether  anything 
would  come  of  it  only  Derek  could  decide. 

Lord  Avonleigh  gave  the  reins  a  shake  and  trotted  briskly 
towards  that  unknown  human  quantity  —  his  second  son. 


CHAPTER  III 

But  we  are  cumbered  -with  our  egotisms; 
A  thousand  prisms, 

Hung  round  our  souls,  refract  the  single  ray 
That  else  •would  show  us  instantly  the  way. 

T.  E.  BROWN 

AT  the  sound  of  hoofs  behind  him,  Derek  swung  round,  smiled 
in  his  sudden  friendly  fashion,  and  stood  waiting  for  his  father 
to  come  up  with  him. 

"Confound  me!"  thought  the  Viscount,  "I  never  even  noticed 
what  an  engaging  smile  the  fellow  has." 

"Hullo!"  he  said,  dismounting  and  slipping  an  arm  through 
Royal's  bridle,  "where  have  you  dropped  from?" 

"Ashbourne,"  answered  Derek. 

"Does  Mother  know  you're  back?" 

"I  hope  so.     I  wrote  yesterday." 

"That's  all  right.    Had  a  good  time? " 

"A  ripping  time.     Suits  me  —  that  sort  of  thing." 

Lord  Avonleigh  glanced  approvingly  at  his  sunburnt  face. 
"You  look  fit  enough,"  he  said.  "I'm  only  just  back  from 
Town.  And  Mother  didn't  happen  to  mention  you  at  tea-tune. 
We  had  important  matters  to  discuss."  A  pause.  "Derek, 
Wyntoun  has  offered  me  the  Governorship  of  Bombay." 

Derek's  prearranged  start  came  off  fairly  well.  "Bombay!" 
he  echoed.  "Are  you  going?" 

"Yes.     In  a  few  weeks." 

This  time  Derek's  surprise  was  unfeigned.  "I  say!  That's 
sharp  work.  Mother  too?" 

"No.  Mother  is  not  strong  enough.  She  will  be  better  — 
in  England." 

"Rather  hard  lines  —  on  both  of  you." 

There  was  tentative  sympathy  in  Derek's  tone.    He  wanted 


82  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

to  say  more;  but  he  had  always  a  vague,  uncomfortable  sense 
of  repression  in  his  father's  company.  To-day  the  atmosphere 
seemed  friendlier  than  usual;  and  with  his  own  confession  in 
view,  he  would  have  liked  to  make  the  most  of  it.  But  they 
were  tied  and  bound  by  the  chains  of  their  disabilities.  The 
bridge  Lord  Avonleigh  had  neglected  to  build  could  not  be  im 
provised  at  will.  Just  because  the  unexpected  note  of  sym 
pathy  struck  home,  he  found  himself  unable  to  answer  his  son's 
remark;  and  they  walked  on  in  silence  through  the  great  iron 
gates. 

"Let  me,"  Derek  said,  and  put  out  a  hand  for  Royal's  rein. 

Lord  Avonleigh  smiled.  "Thanks,  old  boy.  But  he  prefers  it 
this  way.  He'll  go  out  with  me,  if  no  one  else  does.  I  believe 
he'd  fret  if  I  left  him.  Animals  are  more  given  that  way  than 
—  their  superiors." 

Something  in  his  tone  urged  Derek  to  venture  a  personal 
question.  "Father  —  are  you  keen  to  go?" 

"It  is  a  very  great  opportunity  and  —  a  great  compliment," 
Lord  Avonleigh  answered  in  his  dry,  detached  voice  that  made 
Derek  fear  he  had  been  guilty  of  clumsy  intrusion.  "The 
situation  out  there  is  ticklish  —  therefore  interesting.  India 
is  being  unwisely  hustled  along  the  fatal  path  of  democracy  — 
in  her  case,  peculiarly  fatal.  I  haven't  the  arrogance  to  sup 
pose  I  can  prevent  her  Immoderates  from  running  down  a  steep 
place  into  the  sea:  but  at  least  one  may  be  able  to  apply  the 
brake.  If  Wyntoun  thinks  I'm  qualified,  it's  worth  having  a 
try." 

"Rather.  I  don't  wonder  you're  keen."  But  he  did  wonder 
that  his  father  should  have  vouchsafed  him  such  an  exhaustive 
answer  to  a  personal  question. 

Lord  Avonleigh  walked  on  a  few  paces.  Then:  "How  would 
you  like  to  come  out  with  me  and  have  a  hand  in  it,  too?"  he 
asked  with  one  of  his  direct  looks.  "I  could  take  you  as  my 
Private  Secretary.  Interesting  work.  You'd  soon  get  the  hang 
of  it." 

To  say  that  Derek  was  taken  aback  is  to  give  a  shadowy  idea 
of  his  sensations.  He  was  more  than  amazed.  He  was  deeply 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  83 

moved.  One  clear  thought  smote  through  his  confusion:  "If 
only  it  had  been  yesterday!"  Refusal  seemed  so  ungracious, 
that  he  would  have  been  tempted  to  accept  and  chance  it  — 
yesterday. 

To-day  —  with  the  Great  Experiment  looming  ahead  —  his 
slow,  tenacious  brain  could  not  suddenly  swing  round  to  the 
opposite  pole;  neither  could  he  forfeit  in  a  flash  those  few  extra 
years  of  independence  and  his  whole  underlying  idea. 

It  seemed  to  him  —  and  to  his  father  —  an  age  before  he 
found  his  tongue. 

"Of  course  —  I'd  like  to  go  with  you;  and  to  see  something 
of  India,"  he  began  in  a  voice  that  tried  to  be  natural.  "But 
—  I'm  afraid  I'd  be  precious  little  use  —  I  should  have  thought 
...  Van  ..  ." 

"His  qualifications  go  without  saying."  Lord  Avonleigh's 
tone  had  hardenei.  He  felt  refusal  in  the  air.  "Unfortu 
nately  for  me,  it  is  not  advisable  that  we  should  both  be  away 
from  Avonleigh  for  so  long  on  end." 

Derek  thought.  "That  accounts  for  it.  I 'm  faute  de  mieux. 
I'd  never  satisfy  him,  if  I  tried  ever  so." 

And  his  father  thought:  "He's  just  as  bad  as  the  others. 
Only  considers  himself."  Aloud  he  said:  "If  I'm  satisfied  — 
where's  the  objection?  You've  been  havering  long  enough; 
and  I  gather  that  my  proposal  —  broadly  speaking  —  is  not 
distasteful  to  you?" 

"Of  course  not.  But  —  it's  the  last  thing  I'd  have  dreamed 
of.  Besides — " 

His  painful  hesitation  was  so  evident  that  Lord  Avonleigh 
struck  in:  "My  dear  boy,  don't  feel  bound  to  put  yourself  out 
as  a  favour  to  me." 

It  was  not  sarcastically  meant;  but  long  habit  made  Derek 
take  it  so.  He  reddened  furiously. 

"  It's  not  likely  I'd  think  of  it  that  way,"  he  said,  goaded  to 
frankness  by  pain  and  smothered  temper.  "Hasn't  my  bril 
liant  talent  for  muddling  things  been  rubbed  into  me  —  by  all 
of  you,  ever  since  I  was  old  enough  to  muddle  anything?  Is  it 
surprising  I  should  hesitate?" 


84  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Altogether  on  my  account?"  The  edge  had  gone  from 
Lord  Avonleigh's  tone. 

"No  —  not  altogether,"  said  truthful  Derek,  only  half  molli 
fied.  "I've  got  a  notion  of  my  own.  You  told  me  I'd  better 
arrive  at  some  conclusion  this  vac." 

"And  you  have  done  so?     I  admit  —  I  didn't  expect  it." 

"There  you  are!"  muttered  Derek  and  checked  himself. 
"But  —  you  won't  approve.  So  —  in  a  way,  you're  right." 

Lord  Avonleigh  glanced  at  the  boy  under  his  eyelids.  He  had 
never  felt  more  strongly  drawn  to  his  younger  son  than  at  that 
moment.  But  he  had  never  been  affectionate  with  his  boys; 
and  Derek's  pride  was  obviously  up  in  arms. 

"Am  I  to  be  allowed  to  hear  the  conclusion  I  shall  not  ap 
prove  of?"  he  asked  more  gently;  and  his  gentleness  sounded 
to  Derek  like  mock  humility. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  make  things  very  clear,  but  —  it's  like 
this.  I've  crammed  in  a  fair  amount  of  book  learning  at  Ox 
ford.  What  I  want  now  is  —  to  get  at  facts  —  life.  Not 
mere  brain  stuff;  but  the  bedrock  things  .  .  .  that  you  absorb 
through  the  pores  of  your  skin."  He  hesitated  and  bit  his  lip. 
"That  sounds  like  moonshine.  I'm  rotten  at  explaining. 
What  I  mean  is  that  books  are  all  very  well  —  up  to  a  point. 
But  ...  it  seems  to  me  you  can  only  get  at  men  by  knocking 
round  the  earth — "  He  broke  off,  painfully  aware  that  his 
defence  seemed  lame  and  impotent  without  the  deeper  reasons 
hidden  in  his  heart. 

Lord  Avonleigh's  smile  had  the  exasperating  sapience  of 
middle  age  that  seems  to  say  —  "I've  been  taken  that  way 
too.  Mere  intellectual  measles  and  whooping-cough."  What 
he  actually  said  was:  "That  depends — !  Do  you  happen  to 
have  been  studying  'The  Apology  for  Idlers'?" 

That  gentle  flick  killed  any  impulse  to  further  confidence. 
"You  evidently  don't  understand,  Father,"  Derek  said  with  a 
touch  of  hauteur.  "It's  not  idling  I'm  after.  The  notion  is — • 
well,  I  want  to  know  a  bit  more  about  the  Empire  at  first  hand." 

"Quite  a  laudable  ambition  What's  the  ultimate  objective? 
Parliament?" 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  85 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  I'd  like  it  well  enough,  though, 
if  I  saw  the  remotest  chance  of  getting  at  the  real  thing.  But 
they  all  seem  too  busy  throwing  mud  at  each  other  for  the 
country  to  have  much  of  a  look  in." 

"The  country,  my  dear  Derek,  is  like  a  sick  giant  suffering 
from  a  plethora  of  doctors  and  an  orgy  of  experiment.  It  may 
yet  come  to  life  again  and  kick  them  all  to  blazes." 

"But  you  must  experiment  a  bit  if  you  want  progress — " 

Lord  Avonleigh's  quick  brain  pounced  on  a  hidden  connection. 

"I  hope  you  don't  contemplate  an  orgy  of  it  on  the  strength 
of  a  decent  allowance?" 

Again  he  saw  the  boy  redden  through  his  sunburn. 

"Of  course  not.  You  might  give  me  credit  .  .  .  It's  simply 
...  I  want  to  get  at  realities."  He  hesitated,  then  plunged. 
—  "To  get  outside  the  artificial  limits  of  my  own  caste  — " 

"My  good  boy,  the  thing's  impossible,  unless  you  propose  to 
shed  your  skin  — 

"That's  just  what  I  won't  admit,"  Derek  began  with  a  touch 
of  heat:  then  checked  himself  and  was  silent. 

His  father  was  silent  also;  curious,  half  amused  and  wholly 
interested;  awaiting  further  enlightenment.  But  the  silence 
held,  as  they  walked  on  up  the  noble  sweep  of  the  drive;  and  he 
perceived,  with  a  stab  of  disappointment,  that  the  boy  —  while 
talking  'moonshine'  —  evidently  had  some  clear  plan  in  his 
head  which  he  could  not  or  would  not  reveal.  Nor  was  he, 
himself,  the  man  to  press  for  his  son's  confidence.  Since  he  had 
not  troubled  to  win  it,  he  could  not  now,  at  the  eleventh  hour, 
force  the  shy  and  hidden  thing.  But  at  least  he  had  a  right  to 
certain  guarantees. 

"Limits  are  tricky  things  even  when  they  seem  artificial," 
he  remarked  after  due  deliberation;  "the  temptation  to  dis 
regard  them  comes  to  most  men  of  character  —  some  time. 
But  they  have  an  awkward  knack  of  rounding  on  you  in  the  end. 
Modern  art  ignores  them.  Consider  the  disastrous  result!  — 
Do  you  propose  to  disregard  the  artificial  limit  of  time?" 

Derek  threw  up  his  head.  "I'm  not  quite  such  a  fool  as  I 
seem  to  sound." 


86  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"I  haven't  said  so,  Derek,  and  I  certainly  haven't  thought 
so.  You  sound  rather  mysterious  and  sketchy  —  that's  all. 
How  long  do  you  give  yourself?" 

"How  long  will  you  give  me?"  Derek  countered,  smiling 
frankly  now  and  speaking  with  less  constraint.  "I'd  like 
three  years  —  till  I'm  twenty-five.  Perhaps  less.  But  not 
more.  And  —  if  you  suspect  it's  a  sort  of  glorified  slack 
I'm  after,  well"  —a  portentous  pause  —  "you  can  stop  my 
allowance." 

"My  dear  chap  —  don't  be  a  fool!"  Lord  Avonleigh  said 
gruffly;  and  Derek  preferred  the  gruff  ness  to  his  silky  sarcasms 
because  it  suggested  deeper  feeling.  He  had  seen,  in  a  flash, 
that  here  was  the  most  he  could  offer  in  the  way  of  credentials 
and  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  his  stroke  had  taken 
effect.  He  was  also  distinctly  relieved. 

"I  meant  it,  though,"  he  said  quietly.  "Thanks  very  much 
all  the  same  for  giving  me  that  extent  of  rope  — 

"To  hang  yourself  with?" 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  half-defiant  friendliness. 

"I  hope  it  won't  come  to  that!  I'll  try  not  to  make  an 
unholy  mess  of  things.  And  whatever  kind  of  fool  I  may  be  — 
I  won't  forget  .  .  .  where  I  belong." 

The  last  words  came  out  hurriedly,  almost  casually,  and  his 
father  —  who  quite  understood  —  answered  him  in  the  same 
vein.  "That's  to  say  you  will  respect  the  limits  —  if  it  comes 
to  a  pinch.  I  thought  as  much.  When  do  you  intend  to 
start?" 

"Not  till  yeu're  out  of  England." 

The  emphasis  on  the  pronoun  atoned  for  a  good  deal.  They 
were  nearing  the  house  by  now  —  and  Lord  Avonleigh  left  it 
at  that. 

The  magical  peace  of  evening  that  had  calmed  his  troubled 
spirit  was  gone.  But  Derek,  in  his  own  fashion,  had  salved 
the  wound  made  by  his  frank  refusal,  and  in  the  process  had 
thrust  upon  Lord  Avonieigh  the  home  truth  that  he  had  culpably 
overlooked  his  younger  son.  Being  a  just  man,  he  recognized 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  87 

that  this  afternoon's  disappointment  was  the  logical  outcome 
of  his  own  aloofness;  and  that  the  mere  fact  of  fatherhood  gave 
him  no  right  of  entry  into  the  deeper  places  of  his  children's 
thoughts.  God  Himself  knocks  at  that  door. 

But  while  Derek's  obstinate  reticence  pricked  his  curiosity, 
he  approved  the  boy's  independent  spirit  and  distaste  for  the 
sheep-track. 

He  was  standing  before  his  dressing-table  while  these  thoughts 
strayed  through  his  brain. 

"Confounded  carelessness  on  my  part,"  he  reflected,  ad 
justing,  with  perfect  precision,  the  set  of  his  tie.  "There's 
excuse  for  Esther.  They  haven't  a  thing  in  common.  There's 
none  for  me.  He's  turning  out  more  than  ever  like  the  dear 
old  lady.  She  always  said  there  was  good  stuff  in  him."  And 
the  dear  old  lady  had  a  knack  of  being  in  the  right.  It  was  one 
of  her  most  aggravating  qualities. 

At  dinner  Derek  had  less  to  say  for  himself  than  usual;  while 
Esther,  poor  dear,  was  doing  her  ineffectual  best  to  hide  under 
a  bushel  of  small  talk  the  glow  of  her  secret  relief.  It  was 
Van's  facile  tongue  that  filled  the  gaps. 

Though  he  could  not  pretend  to  more  than  a  surface  ac 
quaintance  writh  Indian  affairs,  he  had  a  knack  of  using  his  half- 
knowledge  with  excellent  effect.  He  also  possessed  the  gift  of 
drawing  out  his  reticent  father;  a  genuine  achievement  that 
gave  almost  equal  satisfaction  to  them  both,  and  possibly  ex 
plained  Lord  Avonleigh's  apparent  blindness  to  the  failings  of 
his  elder  son. 

To-night,  when  India  wyas  disposed  of,  they  '  talked  pavement ' 
— as  Derek  put  it  —  to  their  mutual  entertainment;  gossip  of 
dinner  tables,  the  Lobby  and  the  Club.  Every  big  brain  has 
its  foible;  and  Lord  Avonleigh's  satirical  humour  made  him 
relish  any  incident  of  the  human  comedy  that  threw  a  flash 
light  on  the  frailties,  delinquencies,  or  follies  of  his  kind.  And 
Van  had  a  positive  flair  for  stories  that  would  tickle  his  father's 
palate;  discreet  stories  for  the  dinner  table  that  his  lady  mother 
could  enjoy  without  turning  a  hair;  indiscreet  stories,  of  a  racy 
flavour,  to  enliven  their  half-hour  over  wine  and  cigars.  This 


88  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

minor  link  between  them  had  often  stood  him  in  good  stead. 
Minor  links  play  a  major  part  in  oiling  the  wheels  of  life. 

To-night,  when  the  three  men  had  enjoyed  their  moderate 
fill,  Lord  Avonleigh  took  Van  lightly  by  the  arm. 

"Come  to  the  library,"  he  said.  "We  must  talk  business. 
Tell  mother  we'll  turn  up  later  for  bridge,  Derek.  You  can 
amuse  her  meantime  with  your  Tyrolese  escapades." 

Derek  grimaced.  "I'm  afraid  there  weren't  any  worth  jaw 
ing  about,"  he  said:  and  the  two  went  off  together. 

When  he  entered  the  drawing-room  his  mother  laid  aside  her 
paper  and  looked  up  with  her  polite  smile  of  welcome.  He 
caught  himself  wishing  that  there  was  less  of  the  politeness  and 
more  of  the  welcome.  She  was  still  '  new '  enough  to  make  him 
feel  acutely  the  lack  of  any  real  response. 

"You  look  wonderfully  well,"  she  said,  when  he  had  delivered 
his  message.  "I  suppose  you  had  a  very  good  time?  You 
don't  bestow  much  of  your  long  vac.  on  Avonleigh." 

She  stated  the  fact  quite  pleasantly;  but  it  was  not  the  sort 
of  remark  to  stimulate  conversation. 

"No  loss  for  Avonleigh!"  he  retorted  with  a  quick  look  that 
recalled  his  father.  "And  it's  one's  only  chance  for  a  walk 
ing  tour." 

"WTell  —  was  it  a  great  success?"  She  picked  up  a  green 
silk  tie  she  was  knitting  for  Van  and  resigned  herself  to  details. 

"Yes.  It  was  ripping,"  Derek  remarked,  staring  at  the  fire. 
"Grand  scenery.  The  finest  I've  ever  struck.  And  we  were 
in  luck  with  our  weather." 

"A  most  important  point,"  she  murmured  with  conviction. 
"It's  the  damp  makes  that  sort  of  thing  so  risky.  I  can't 
quite  see,  myself,  where  the  pleasure  comes  in.  I  hope  you 
took  your  Burberry?  " 

"We  had  an  old  one  of  Jack's  between  us,"  Derek  informed 
her  gravely.  "It  came  in  quite  handy  once  —  on  a  blazing 
hot  day." 

Lady  Avonleigh  looked  vaguely  perplexed.  Derek  had  his 
father's  annoying  trick  of  saying  nonsensical  things  with  an 
unmoved  face,  so  that  you  never  knew  whether  you  were  ex- 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  89 

pected  to  smile  or  not.  She  supposed  she  had  misheard  him 
and  pursued  her  catechism. 

"  Were  you  simply  walking  all  the  time?  " 

"Most  of  the  time  —  when  we  weren't  sleeping  or  eating." 

"It  doesn't  sound  very  amusing  —  or  edifying." 

"Oh,  but  it  was  —  hugely  edifying.  And  no  end  of  a 
lark." 

He  did  not  volunteer  concrete  proofs  of  either  statement; 
and  she  went  on  patiently  with  her  knitting,  though  she  was 
longing  to  finish  the  account  of  a  fashionable  wedding  that  lay 
at  her  elbow. 

Derek  —  discouraged  by  her  silence  —  was  craving  for  a  pipe. 
The  longer  the  pause  lasted,  the  harder  he  found  it  to  start 
afresh.  Every  remark  that  occurred  to  him  seemed  more  inane 
than  the  last.  And  to  sit  there,  tongue-tied,  made  him  feel  a 
perfect  fool.  There  were  many  little  things  he  would  like  to 
tell  her,  if  she  would  only  give  the  slightest  sign  of  caring  to  hear 
them.  Also,  he  wanted  to  express  his  sympathy  about  India; 
but  felt  too  uncertain  of  her  real  wishes  in  the  matter  to  venture 
on  such  delicate  ground.  It  was  significant  of  their  whole 
relation  that  he  did  not  think  of  mentioning  his  father's  offer 
or  his  own  decision  to  leave  England. 

Why  did  her  mere  presence  hang  a  dead  weight  on  him  so 
that  he  could  not  be  his  natural  self?  Was  it  his  own  incurable 
keenness  to  see  her  again  that  made  the  actuality  so  flat  by 
contrast? 

And  yet  —  she  looked  so  charming,  so  dignified,  sitting  there 
in  her  velvet  gown,  with  the  rose-shaded  light  falling  on  her 
smooth  hair  and  her  long  fingers  moving  rhythmically  to  and 
fro.  She  was  always  knitting  ties  for  Van.  The  only  one  she 
ever  made  for  him  he  had  worn  devoutly  till  it  became  a  faded, 
unsightly  rag.  And  even  then  he  had  not  thrown  it  away. 
It  reposed  in  his  tie  case  still. 

Absorbed  in  these  thoughts,  he  forgot  his  futile  hunt  for  the 
right  remark.  A  very  small  sound,  the  ghost  of  a  sigh,  re 
minded  him  that  the  silence  had  lasted  an  age  —  about  five 
minutes  by  the  clock.  Then,  just  as  a  happy  idea  struck  him, 


QO  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

he  saw  her  glance  wistfully  at  the  discarded  paper:  and  the 
sight  tripped  him  up  altogether.  He  thought:  "Poor  dear! 
She's  deadly  bored!  Longing  to  read."  And  to  give  her  a 
chance  he  began  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  book  that  lay  on 
a  small  table  near  him. 

At  that  she  laid  down  her  work  and  regarded  him  with  mild 
exasperation. 

"Really,  Derek!"  she  said.  "Have  you  quite  lost  your 
manners?  Here  am  I,  waiting  to  hear  some  more.  And  after 
a  few  stupid  remarks  about  the  scenery  and  the  wreather,  you 
start  reading  a  book.  As  you  say  you  enjoyed  yourself,  you 
might  be  a  little  more  explicit  for  the  benefit  of  others." 

The  injustice  of  it  all  —  though  quite  unwitting  —  goaded 
Derek  into  some  show  of  self-defence. 

"Well,  I'm  willing  —  if  you  really  care  to  hear.  I  was  afraid 
if  I  began  to  spread  myself,  you'd  be  bored  stiff  and  be  too 
polite  to  show  it.  And  just  now  .  .  .  the  way  you  looked  at 
the  paper  ...  I  felt  I  was  simply  being  a  nuisance.  So  I 
took  up  this  beastly  book.  Honour  bright,  I  don't  know  what 
it's  about  —  and  I  don't  care  a  damn!" 

"  D  er  ek !    In  my  drawing-room ! ' ' 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry.  I  do  seem  to  have  dropped  my  manners 
somewhere  on  the  Brenner  Pass!  But  if  you  want  to  read, 
Mother,  I'd  much  rather  you  said  so." 

"I  don't  want  to  read."  Having  arraigned  him,  she  menda 
ciously  stuck  to  her  guns.  "It  was  only  —  Lady  Mary  Rose's 
wedding.  And  I'd  like  to  hear  a  little  more  about  your  doings 
before  they  come  in." 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  and  proceeded  to  do  his  halting  best. 

For  hah"  an  hour  or  so  things  went  swimmingly.  Derek 
warmed  to  his  subject;  and  if  her  comments  flagged  a  little, 
he  scarcely  noticed  it.  He  was  well  launched  on  their  crown 
ing  tramp  over  the  Brenner  Pass  when,  by  unlucky  chance,  he 
detected  her  gracefully  screening  a  yawn.  That  tripped  him 
up  again  and  brought  the  great  tramp  rather  abruptly  to  an 
end.  But  he  managed  it  well  enough  to  escape  counter- 
detection.  Then  he  rose  and  went  over  to  the  fire. 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  91 

"I'm  sure  you've  had  enough  of  my  doings,"  he  said  casually. 
"You'd  much  better  go  back  to  your  wedding  presents!" 

She  looked  up  at  him,  the  ghost  of  a  suspicion  in  her  eyes: 
and  they  were  both  thankful  to  hear  voices  outside  the  door. 

Derek  lost  no  time  in  finding  an  excuse  to  escape. 

"Sorry  if  I  bored  you,  Mother,"  he  said,  just  touching  her 
ivory-smooth  forehead  with  his  lips,  "But  you  brought  it  on 
yourself." 

"Stupid  boy!"  she  rebuked  him  sweetly,  and  patted  his  arm. 
"It  was  most  interesting.  I  quite  enjoyed  it." 

Derek  grimaced.  It  always  worried  him  that,  in  the  sacred 
name  of  politeness,  she  would  tell  needless  lies. 

Van  had  opened  the  card-table  and  Lord  Avonleigh  was 
shuffling.  Derek  stood  by  him  a  moment  looking  on;  then 
touched  his  shoulder. 

"Good-night,  Father,"  he  said;  and  Lord  Avonleigh  looked 
up,  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "Going  to  bed?  I  don't  think!" 

"No,  I'm  going  to  have  a  read  in  the  study." 

"Unsociable  cub!  Why  not  stay  and  take  a  hand?  Cut 
throat  bridge  is  poor  fun." 

Derek  felt  nonplussed.  His  abstention  from  bridge  was  part 
of  the  accepted  order  of  things.  It  was  a  purely  protective 
disability;  and  no  one  troubled  about  it  when  Ina  was  at  home. 
At  any  other  time  he  would  have  frankly  excused  himself;  but 
to-night  compunction  stirred  in  him  and  he  temporized. 

"What's  the  use,  Father?  You  know  I'm  a  duffer  at  it. 
You'd  all  be  wanting  to  cut  my  throat  before  the  rubber  was 
out!" 

"That's  quite  possible.  But,  whatever  the  provocation,  we 
promise  to  abstain!  Esther"  —he  raised  his  voice  a  little — • 
"you  promise  to  abstain?" 

Lady  Avonleigh,  who  had  not  been  attending,  looked  a  little 
blank.  "My  dear  Evan,  what  are  you  talking  about?  You 
know  I  only  take  it  medicinally." 

Van  was  seized  with  a  discreet  fit  of  coughing,  and  Derek 
bit  his  lip.  Lord  Avonleigh's  muscles  from  long  practice  were 
under  better  control. 


92  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Van,  behave  yourself!"  he  said  sotto  wee,  then  turned  to  his 
wife.  "I  was  suggesting,  my  dear,  that  we  should  take  Derek 
medicinally  for  our  convenience  and  his  good.  He's  too  modest 
by  half." 

"Well,  if  he  doesn't  want  to  play  —  he  won't.  Why  worry 
him?"  she  said  sweetly;  and  Derek  heartily  wished  he  could 
take  her  at  her  word. 

"Ah!  that's  the  way  you've  spoilt  him,  Esther!" 

But  she  was  impervious  to  irony.  "I'm  sure  no  one  could 
ever  say  I  spoilt  my  children,"  she  retorted  with  serene  com 
placence  and  perfect  truth.  "I  wish  you'd  stop  talking  non 
sense.  I  thought  we  were  going  to  play  bridge.  Sit  down, 
Derek,  if  you  want  to  stay;  and  do  try  and  remember  what  are 
trumps." 

They  cut  for  partners.  Derek  put  up  a  prayer  that  Van 
might  fall  to  his  lot;  but  his  prayers  were  seldom  answered. 
The  cards  consigned  him  to  his  mother  —  and  he  changed  places 
with  Van. 

"Kick  me  if  I  look  like  forgetting  what's  trumps,"  he  mut 
tered  with  a  wry  smile. 

But  if  he  avoided  that  elementary  sin,  there  were  pitfalls  in 
plenty  for  the  absent-minded;  and  Derek  —  no  card-player  — 
was  incurably  absent-minded  at  bridge.  To-night  he  was  still 
further  hampered  by  pin-pricks  of  remorse  at  having  withheld 
his  true  reason  for  refusing  India.  Once  he  failed  to  notice  his 
mother's  call  in  clubs.  Once  he  misled  her  by  playing  from  a 
weak  suit,  in  a  purely  perverse  spirit  of  experiment  —  just  to 
see  what  would  come  of  it. 

Disaster  came  of  it,  and  Lady  Avonleigh's  not  unnatural 
apostrophe:  "Really,  Derek,  you  are  too  stupid!" 

Finally  he  revoked  and  she  almost  flung  down  her  cards. 
Needless  to  say  they  were  beaten  ignominiously. 

Derek  pushed  back  his  chair.  "I'm  awfully  sorry,  Mother," 
he  said  in  a  repressed  voice;  but  it  was  Lord  Avonleigh  who 
answered  him. 

"My  fault  for  over-persuading  you." 

"Well,  I  said  I  was  useless  —  a  duffer." 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  93 

"And  you  went  out  of  your  way  to  prove  it?" 

Their  eyes  met;  and  the  sense  of  a  double  significance  flashed 
between  them. 

"No  need  for  that,  worse  luck,"  Derek  said  ruefully.  "It's 
the  way  I'm  made." 

"There  are  limits,  in  fact!"  Lord  Avonleigh  reminded  him, 
a  gleam  in  his  grave  eyes.  "Well,  we  won't  victimize  you  — 
or  Mother  any  more." 

Derek  rose  with  so  audible  a  sigh  of  relief  that  Van  winked  at 
him  over  Lady  Avonleigh's  graceful  bowed  head.  She  was 
pensively  shuffling;  bored  with  the  interlude;  not  heeding  their 
talk. 

Derek  did  not  kiss  her  again.  As  for  his  father  —  though  he 
knew  young  men  of  his  own  age  who  thought  no  shame  of  it  — 
he  could  not  remember  having  kissed  him  since  his  first  home 
coming  from  Winchester.  On  that  occasion  his  natural  im 
pulse  of  affection  had  been  checked  by  the  remark  that  he  was 
getting  too  old  for  nursery  ways. 

"Blounts  don't  kiss,"  he  had  been  gravely  informed;  and  — 
though  a  twinkle  lurked  in  the  gravity  —  it  was  literally  true. 


CHAPTER  IV 

In  a  time  of  sceptic  moths  and  cynic  rusts, 
And  fatted  lives,  that  of  their  su'c.etness  tire, 
In  a  world  of  flying  loves  and  fading  lusts, 
It  is  something  to  be  sure  of  a  desire. 

CHESTERTON 

ON  Saturday  afternoon  guests  began  to  arrive;  and  they  sat 
down  twelve  to  dinner  that  evening.  It  was  little  more  than  a 
family  party.  The  big  shooting  week-ends  began  with  the 
pheasants  in  October.  Meantime  there  were  partridges.  There 
were  golf  and  tennis,  billiards  and  bridge  to  save  twentieth- 
century  guests  and  hosts  from  the  burden  of  making  conversa 
tion.  There  were  the  famous  Avonleigh  port  and  liqueur  brandy ; 
the  scarcely  less  famous  grapes  and  pears;  and  last,  not  least, 
there  was  that  all-pervading  sense  of  stability  and  comfort, 
with  no  jarring  note  of  ostentation  to  spoil  the  harmony  of  the 
whole. 

From  this  it  may  be  gathered  that,  physically  and  socially, 
a  week-end  at  Avonleigh  Hall  left  little  to  be  desired;  yet 
among  the  county  neighbours  were  certain  perverse  spirits  — 
Lady  Forsyth,  for  instance,  and  Lady  Lenox  —  who  found  the 
human  atmosphere  of  its  stately  draught-proof  rooms  a  trifle 
chilly  and  its  gracious,  punctilious  hostess  more  than  a  trifle 
dull.  Hence  the  adjunct  of  the  plain  daughter  —  who  so  up 
set  Van  —  whenever  Sir  Eldred  came  to  stay  with  his  friend. 
But  no  shadow  of  suspicion  disturbed  Lady  Avonleigh.  She 
never  dreamed  that  man  or  woman  could  find  her  hospitality 
anything  but  acceptable.  She  had  a  mild  liking  for  Sir  Eldred, 
who  treated  her  with  marked  courtesy;  partly  to  atone  for 
Quita's  defection,  partly  because  she  was  the  wife  of  his  friend. 

The  two  men  had  much  in  common.     Both  —  wife  and  chil- 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  95 

dren,  notwithstanding  —  were  creatures  of  the  lone  trail;  both 
took  a  keen  interest  in  county  affairs.  They  were  still  further 
linked  by  a  taste  for  local  archaeology;  and  Lenox  was  amassing 
material  for  a  joint  book  on  the  subject.  To  him  the  Bombay 
appointment  was  a  blow;  but  he  was  putting  a  cheerful  face  on 
it.  And  at  dinner  he  tried,  for  his  friend's  sake,  to  interest 
Lady  Avonleigh  in  Indian  affairs. 

His  daughter  —  a  plain  but  pleasing  replica  of  himself  — 
seemed  in  no  way  over-awed  by  her  slightly  formidable  host, 
who  had  a  real  affection  for  her.  "A  fine  manly  girl!"  he 
would  say  with  his  twinkle  at  Van;  and  it  was  not  altogether 
the  perversity  of  a  parent  that  made  her  seem  more  accessible 
than  his  own  Ina,  whose  bright  surface  was  scarcely  more 
yielding  than  the  surface  of  a  billiard  ball.  Presumably  her 
K.  C.  had  discovered  a  soft  spot  somewhere:  but,  judging  by 
appearances,  they  were  as  unsentimental  and  practical  a  pair 
of  lovers  as  even  the  twentieth  century  can  produce.  One 
could  watch  them  without  the  faintest  risk  of  trespassing  on 
private  ground. 

They  were  sitting  together,  opposite  Derek,  who  had  not  yet 
seen  the  new  acquisition,  and  had  felt  vaguely  sorry  for  him. 
Now  he  perceived  that  his  pity,  besides  being  unbrotherly, 
was  superfluous  to  wit.  Ferrars  —  that  was  the  K.  C.'s  name 
—  looked  as  if  he  might  prove  a  match  for  the  girl  who  had 
graciously  consented  to  bear  his  name  and  share  his  income  and 
shine  in  his  reflected  brilliance.  He  was  quite  ten  years  her 
senior.  He  had  the  flat  lip,  the  mobile  mouth  and  undeviating 
eye  of  the  successful  Man  of  Law.  He  enjoyed  intimacy  with 
political  stars  of  the  first  magnitude.  "And  his  friends  say  he 
may  rise  to  anything,"  Ina  had  confided  to  Derek  half  an  hour 
before  dinner  with  a  metallic  sparkle  in  her  eyes.  He,  on  his 
part,  would  have  the  honour  and  privilege  of  marrying  a  Blount 
of  Avonleigh.  A  thundering  good  business  proposition,  Derek 
concluded,  with  a  touch  of  young  cynicism.  Well  —  so  long  as 
they  were  satisfied  — 

And  they  certainly  looked  it.  Derek,  being  partnerless,  with 
young  Schonberg  on  one  side  and  Marion  Blount  on  the  other 


96  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

—  was  not  distinguishing  himself  conversationally.  Karl  was 
half  English,  half  German,  and  a  pleasant  fellow  enough;  but, 
in  spite  of  his  frequent  visits  to  Avonleigh,  the  two  had  never 
approached  intimacy. 

At  the  moment,  he  was  arguing  across  the  table  with  Van, 
and  Marion  Blount  was  absorbed  in  her  French  count;  so 
Derek  had  leisure  to  observe  the  new  element  and  to  wonder 
at  the  apparent  readiness  with  which  even  independent  men 
and  women  slipped  their  necks  under  the  fatal  yoke.  Marriage, 
dispassionately  viewed,  seemed  to  him  the  most  insidious  and 
inflexible  of  all  the  shackles  that  constrain  the  human  soul. 
"And  what  shall  a  man  give  in  exchange  for  his  soul  —  ?" 

"  Well,  Derek,  when  are  you  going  to  wake  up  and  talk  to  me?  " 
Aunt  Marion's  voice,  friendly  but  incisive,  broke  the  thread  of 
his  thoughts.  "You  have  no  dinner-table  manners  whatever." 

Derek,  at  the  onset,  had  frowned  and  blinked  as  if  a  light  had 
been  flashed  in  his  eyes.  He  was  a  bad  subject  for  direct  attack; 
apt  to  roll  himself  up  like  a  hedgehog  and  present  a  surface  of 
prickles  to  his  assailant.  But  the  Honourable  Marion  Blount 
was  nothing  if  not  direct.  Her  decisive  features  proclaimed  as 
much;  and  her  hazel  eyes  —  deep-set  like  her  brother's  —  had 
something  of  their  hawk-like  gleam. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  Derek  apologized  gruffly.  He  looked 
and  sounded  so  far  from  contrite  that  she  laughed  and  inflicted 
an  'ant's  nip'  on  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"All  the  same,  I'm  very  angry  with  you,"  she  went  on,  under 
cover  of  the  general  buzz  of  talk.  "Your  father  tells  me  he 
offered  to  take  you  with  him  —  and  you  refused!" 

Derek  winced  under  his  prickles.  He  thought:  "How  like  a 
woman;  bringing  it  up  in  this  crowd!"  And  he  said  rather 
stiffly:  "Itwashard  luck — on  both  of  us.  But — it  wouldn't  have 
worked.  I  can't  explain.  And  I  can't  help  it  if  you  are  angry. 
You  don't  understand.  But  I  believe  —  anyway — Father  does." 

"Your  father  understands  this  much,"  his  aunt  retorted 
unabashed,  "that  you  can  all  be  counted  to  go  your  own  ways 
without  troubling  your  heads  about  him  or  any  one  else  in 
creation  —  even  his  own  wife  — " 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  97 

" Mother?"  Derek  took  her  up  sharply.  "You're  not  fair 
on  her  —  ever.  You  don't  make  allowances.  Father  says  it 
would  be  a  risk." 

"  She  says  so,  my  dear  boy.  And  he  shields  her,  like  the 
gentleman  he  is."  Her  tone  was  less  incisive  now.  Its  quiet 
ness  carried  conviction.  And  conviction  made  Derek  angrier 
still. 

"If  he  shields  her,  how  dare  you — !"  he  checked  himself. 
"How  can  you  know?" 

"Because  he  is  my  brother,  and  for  me  there  is  no  one  like 
x  'm  in  the  world."  Her  voice  grew  quieter  still  so  that  he 
cc  Jd  hardly  hear  her  through  the  clatter  and  chatter,  the  lively 
volley  of  chaff  kept  up  by  Jack  and  Ina,  Karl  and  Van.  "He 
doesn't  need  to  tell  me  things.  I  know  him  as  none  of  you  do 

—  or  ever  will." 

Thus  goaded,  Derek  ventured  a  bold  question.  "Is  that 
altogether  our  fault?  Does  he  give  us  much  of  a  chance?  " 

"No.  He's  a  difficult  creature.  But  —  underneath,  he's 
splendid.  He  says  hard  and  cutting  things,  I  admit.  But 
when  it  comes  to  action,  he's  far  too  patient  with  you  all.  As 
for  risk — !  He  talks  about  her.  No  one  thinks  of  the  risk 
for  him." 

"For  him?"  Derek's  heart  stood  still.  There  were  no 
prickles  to  contend  with  now.  "What's  wrong?  I  didn't 
know — " 

"Of  course  not.  You  aren't  supposed  to.  I'm  not  sup 
posed  to.  But  I  do.  And  —  your  mother  does,  as  far  as  she 
ever  lets  herself  know  anything  that  is  likely  to  make  her  un 
comfortable." 

"Oh  — don't!" 

She  caught  the  pain  in  his  low  tone  and  flashed  a  smile  at 
him.  "You're  a  loyal  son!  Anyway,  /  can  see  that  he's 
keen  to  have  one  of  you  with  him.  And  it  tells  me  more  than 
he  imagines." 

That  was  too  much  for  Derek. 

"Aunt  Marion,  I'd  never  have  refused  if  I'd  guessed.    And 

—  I  'm  willing  to  go  now,  if  it's  —  if  there's  — " 


98  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

He  broke  off,  checked  by  an  embarrassing  sense  of  publicity 
—  though  no  one  heeded  them:  and  she  turned  on  him  with  a 
sudden  softening. 

"I'm  glad  to  know  that,  Derek.  But  —  I  doubt  the  wisdom 
of  seeming  to  go  back  on  your  decision.  It  might  look  like  mere 
wobbling.  Or  —  he  might  suspect.  He's  got  his  other  eye  on 
us  now.  And  I  don't  want  to  spoil  things.  I'm  so  enchanted 
to  be  going.  I'll  see  after  him.  Never  fear.  /  want  him  to 
take  Van.  But  I  believe  he  knows  Van  would  refuse:  and  he 
won't  face  that.  Really  you  are  the  most  detached  family  — ! 
Each  twiddling  on  your  own  pivot  —  self-centred  — " 

"Am  I  self-centred?"  Derek  struck  in. 

"Not  so  bad  as  the  rest.  But  still  —  look  at  you,  over  this 
business." 

Derek  sighed.  "That's  not  fair.  I  —  well  —  if  we  are  not 
seeming  to  care,  who  made  us  that  way?  Aren't  you  a  Blount 
yourself?" 

"Very  much  so.  And  'Blounts  don't  kiss'!  I  know  all 
about  that.  We're  hard  outside  and  soft  underneath.  And 
your  mother's  the  other  way  round." 

"Mother's  not  hard." 

"Isn't  she?  Bless  the  boy!  Well,  if  you  prefer  it,  she's 
smilingly  immobile  where  her  own  interests  are  concerned." 

Derek  said  nothing.  The  talk  was  dying  down.  Personal 
ities  were  no  longer  safe:  and  at  that  moment  Ferrars  engaged 
Miss  Blount  in  conversation  across  the  table.  He  had  been 
discussing  with  Comte  d'Estelle  the  relations  between  German 
sensibilities  and  German  self-assertion :  and  Ina  —  frankly  bored 
with  racial  idiosyncrasies  —  turned  her  batteries  full  on  Jack 
Burlton,  whom  Derek  intended  to  annex  for  serious  conversa 
tion  on  the  first  opportunity. 

The  official  evening,  divided  between  billiards  and  bridge, 
offered  small  chance  for  intimate  talk.  But  the  moment  Jervis 
appeared  with  'drinks,'  Derek  made  his  escape,  closely  followed 
by  Jack. 

"I'll  come  in  and  raid  you,  old  man,  when  I've  got  rid  of 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  99 

the  world's  fetters,"  he  said,  as  they  halted  outside  Jack's 
room. 

Five  minutes  later,  he  reappeared  in  a  luxuriously  soft  camel's 
hair  dressing-gown,  settled  himself  on  Jack's  bed  and  explored 
a  capacious  pocket  for  pipe  and  pouch.  Jack,  in  striped  silk 
trousers  and  vest,  was  at  the  washing  stand. 

"I  got  a  scrawl  from  Gay  yesterday,"  he  informed  Derek 
from  the  depths  of  a  vast  sponge.  "Posted  at  Southampton. 
It  was  the  most  beastly  rotten  luck  missing  her  by  the  skin  of 
my  teeth." 

"Well,  you  blithering  idiot,  if  you'd  only  told  me  — !" 

Jack  turned  on  him  a  moist,  glowing  face  of  reproach. 

"I  like  that,  when  I  was  simply  thinking  of  you  and  your  old 
Munchen.  Isn't  she  simply  topping?  " 

Derek  smiled.  "She's  charming.  The  way  she  hailed  me 
out  of  the  window  made  a  deep  impression  on  our  fellow  pas 
sengers!  Was  her  father  French-Canadian?  She  spoke  of 
cousins." 

"Not  close  cousins.  Her  father  was  pure  French.  But  he 
had  connections  out  there,  who  took  him  into  their  business. 
Gay  was  born  at  Montreal:  and  she  has  a  married  aunt  there 
now,  fearfully  keen  on  her.  They  came  home  a  few  years  ago; 
and  they've  been  bothering  her  to  go  out  ever  since.  But  she 
wouldn't  leave  Mother.  Now  —  Mother's  gone,  they've  got 
her,  worse  luck!" 

"For  long?" 

"Hope  not.  But  it's  more  than  a  visit.  If  they  show  any 
signs  of  freezing  on  to  her,  they'll  have  me  to  reckon  with!" 

"A  tough  proposition!"  Derek  remarked,  gravely  consider 
ing  Jack's  splendid  appearance  in  his  silk  sleeping  suit,  with 
the  light  shining  full  upon  his  sleek  brown  hair,  quaintly  em 
phasizing  the  tilt  of  his  genial  nose  and  the  dimple  in  his  chin 
to  which  even  his  best  friends  alluded  at  their  peril.  And  few 
cared  about  taking  the  risk.  For  there  was  more  than  six  feet 
of  him  with  thews  and  muscles  to  correspond.  He  was  not 
yet  twenty-one;  and  at  the  moment  he  reminded  Derek  of  a 
large  good-humoured  St.  Bernard  puppy. 


ioo  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

He  was  trying  hard  to  look  tragic,  but  his  whole  make-up  was 
against  him.  "Everything's  beastly  all  round,"  he  flung  out. 
"Her  confounded  people  might  have  waited  till  the  Army  had 
swallowed  me.  Home'll  be  simply  rotten  without  her.  Thank 
God  for  Oxford  anyway  —  and  your  fourth  year.  No  more 
havering  about  that,  I  hope?" 

"No  more  havering  —  and  no  more  Oxford." 

Jack  flung  down  the  ivory  brushes  with  which  he  was  quite 
superfluously  polishing  his  hair.  "Well  you  are — !  Why  the 
dickens — ?" 

"Well  —  it's  just  a  notion.  Rather  a  drastic  one.  It's 
going  to  take  me  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  and  knock  a  few  years 
out  of  my  life  as  an  average  English  gentleman  —  and  I  warn 
you  it's  an  idee  fixe.  So  you  needn't  exhaust  yourself  by  hurl 
ing  epithets  at  me." 

"Thanks  very  much  —  and  all  that.  But  what's  at  the 
back  of  it?  May  a  mere  outsider  be  permitted  to  know?" 

Derek  drew  himself  up.  "After  that,  I'm  blest  if  I  don't 
give  you  three  guesses  and  tell  you  which  is  the  right  one  — 
to-morrow  morning." 

"And  I'm  damned  if  you  do!" 

Jack  spoke  quite  coolly;  but,  almost  in  the  same  breath,  he 
hurled  himself  on  Derek,  who  went  clean  over.  For  several 
minutes  they  rolled  and  scrimmaged  like  a  pair  of  puppies, 
fighting  for  all  they  were  worth.  Though  Derek  had  the  greater 
skill,  he  was  badly  hampered  by  his  dressing-gown  and  the  fact 
that  he  was  under  dog. 

In  the  end,  he  found  himself  ignominiously  pinned  to  the  bed, 
while  Jack  knelt  above  him  demanding  information. 

"  Deliver  the  goods,  you  secretive  villain  —  or  I'll  choke  the 
life  out  of  you!"  was  the  mild  manner  of  his  request. 

"Right  you  are!  Pax!"  Derek  panted  and  wrenched  him 
self  free.  "Nice  sort  of  way  to  treat  your  lawful  host!  Get 
into  bed  like  a  good  little  boy.  Light  up  and  give  me  a  chance." 

He  did  not  hurry  over  the  pipe  preliminaries.  He  saw  the 
whole  thing  quite  clearly  from  Jack's  point  of  view;  but  it  was 
not  in  him  either  to  exalt  his  precious  scheme  or  enthuse  over 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  101 

it.  So  he  sat  there,  arms  folded  on  hunched-up  knees,  and 
made  the  best  he  could  of  a  difficult  business. 

Jack  listened  in  growing  wonderment,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
Derek's  face. 

"  Comment  is  superfluous,"  he  remarked  impressively  when 
the  tale  was  told.  "And  what  has  'the  noble  lord'  to  say  to  all 
that?" 

"  The  noble  lord  hasn't  heard  all  that.  But  I  made  things  as 
clear  as  I  could;  and  he  was  jolly  decent  about  it.  Didn't 
press  for  details.  Thank  Heaven,  as  a  family,  we  respect  each 
other's  reserves.  There  was  only  one  horrid  jar.  He  wanted 
me  to  go  out  with  him  as  Private  Secretary  —  or  some  such 
desperate  character.  Well  —  I  felt  I  couldn't.  And  I  had  to 
tell  him  so.  And  I  simply  hated  it." 

Jack's  jaw  dropped  half  an  inch.  "You  chucked  a  chance 
like  that?  Your  own  father,  too!  Dirks,  you  are  a  sanguinary 
fool." 

Derek  regarded  him  pensively,  without  rancour.  "Thought 
that  would  be  your  lucid  summing-up  of  the  situation." 

They  were  silent  a  few  moments:  Derek  remembering,  with  a 
pang,  Aunt  Marion's  talk  at  dinner;  Jack  interested,  sceptical, 
yet  aware  of  lurking  admiration.  Derek  certainly  had  the 
courage  of  his  crazy  convictions. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  he  groaned,  tossing  his  cigarette  end  into  the 
grate.  "Why  on  earth  do  things  go  so  contrary?  I'd  give  my 
eyes  for  that  sort  of  job.  India,  sport  —  the  whole  blooming 
show.  And  you,  that  can  have  the  lot,  going  out  steerage. 
Rubbing  shoulders  with  a  herd  of  swearing,  spitting  bargees. 
Filthy  food.  Filthy  talk.  My  hat!"  He  paused  —  realizing 
details.  "It  begins  to  dawn  on  me  that  you're  rather  a  splen 
did  sort  of  fool  —  " 

"Oh,  dry  up,"  Derek  said  sharply;  and  Jack,  aware  that  he 
had  sinned,  meekly  accepted  the  rebuke. 

"When  do  you  start  on  this  personally  conducted  tour?" 

"At  the  end  of  next  month." 

"Bo-/wo/"  The  boy's  foolish  grimace  cloaked  a  very  real 
sinking  of  the  heart.  "And  I'm  to  be  left  lamenting!  Oxford, 


102  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

with  no  Dirks.  Home,  with  no  Gay.  And  my  poor  old  guv'nor 
sitting  like  a  ton  of  coals  on  my  chest  —  Gay  says  she  mentioned 
it- 

"Yes.     She  seemed  anxious." 

Jack  nodded.     "So  am  I." 

"That's  the  first  I've  heard  of  it  —  and  the  talks  we  had  out 
there." 

"Well  —  I  didn't  want  to  be  a  spoil-sport,  when  you  couldn't 
escape  my  charming  society.  But  I'm  jolly  glad  Gay  did  speak 
to  you." 

"It  was  no  more  than  a  hint.    What's  the  damage?" 

"Wish  to  God  I  knew.  But  there's  no  blinking  the  fact  the 
dear  old  Dad's  not  the  man  he  was  —  financially  or  otherwise. 
The  proud  notion  that  I  was  to  adorn  a  crack  cavalry  regiment 
seems  to  have  melted  away.  And  every  vac.  we're  favoured 
with  increased  doses  of  old  Schonberg,  Mrs.  Schonberg  and  all 
the  little  Schonbergs,  till  we're  on  the  verge  of  mutiny." 

"Poor  old  Jacko!"  Derek's  tone  was  gravely  sympathetic. 
"And  do  you  really  imagine  Schonberg  has  any  connection 
with  the  bad  turn  things  are  taking?  " 

Jack  sighed  portentously.  "I  do  more  than  imagine.  I  feel 
it  in  my  bones  —  and  so  does  Gay  —  that  the  old  devil  is  a 
blood-sucker.  He's  got  his  fingers  in  no  end  of  commercial 
pies.  I  know  he's  connected  with  the  big  Metal  Combine. 
And  he  has  some  sort  of  footing  in  that  blooming  old  Deutsche 
Bank,  which  he  talks  of  as  if  it  was  God  Almighty.  Also  I 
believe  he  runs  a  hotel  on  the  East  Coast  —  and  Lord  knows 
what  else.  He  must  be  simply  made  of  money;  though  he 
doesn't  live  like  it  at  Randchester.  As  to  his  connection  with 
our  rotten  luck  —  well,  out  there  I  got  a  sort  of  notion"  —  He 
leaned  suddenly  forward,  his  good-tempered  face  tense  and 
earnest.  "I  got  it  off  the  foreman  of  that  Italian  gang  on  the 
line.  You  remember,  we  had  a  long  jawbation  — " 

"About  the  Germans  in  Italy  —  yes." 

"Well,  I  didn't  tell  you  half  he  said,  because  it  gave  me  horrid 
tweaks.  I  wanted  to  talk  it  out  with  Gay.  And  now  she's 
gone,  I  can't  keep  it  bottled  up  any  more.  That  fellow  de- 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  103 

clares  the  Germans  are  rotting  Italian  trade  —  secretly  getting 
all  the  strings  into  their  own  hands.  I  couldn't  follow  half 
the  stuff  he  talked  about  'key  industries'  and  all  that;  but  I 
gathered  that  their  beastly  banks  have  a  lot  to  do  with  it. 
Advance  money  and  that  sort  of  game.  He  told  me  a  long  yarn 
about  his  brother's  glass-making  business  in  Florence:  how  it 
was  slowly  undermined  and  ruined;  and  then  swallowed  up  by 
a  big  German  business  that  brought  the  whole  thing  to  life 
again  in  no  time.  Glass,  it  seems,  is  what  they  call  a  'key' 
industry  —  so's  metal!" 

There  was  a  significant  pause,  then  Jack  said  slowly:  "Doesn't 
the  parallel  strike  you?" 

Derek  scowled  thoughtfully  at  the  bowl  of  his  pipe.  "That's 
rather  tall,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Think  so?  Well  —  listen  what  happened,  when  I  got  home, 
to  calm  my  foolish  fears.  I  found  the  guv'nor  in  a  queer  mood. 
And  the  very  first  evening  he  started  talking  of  his  own  affairs, 
which  isn't  his  habit,  by  any  means.  I  gathered  that  for  some 
time  things  have  been  on  the  down  grade;  just  slipping  and 
slipping  —  No  big  losses.  If  there  had  been,  he  might  have 
pulled  himself  together.  But  he's  a  slow  mover,  and  his  faith 
in  Burltons  is  about  all  he's  got  in  the  way  of  religion.  I  felt 
frightfully  sorry  for  him,  poor  old  chap.  And  just  a  shade  sorry 
for  myself.  For  he  hinted  at  cutting  down  my  allowance  and 
little  practical  jokes  of  that  sort.  Then,  when  he'd  thoroughly 
worked  up  my  feelings,  he  pitched  in  his  final  bomb-shell." 

Again  the  boy  had  a  dramatic  pause.  "Schonberg  to  the 
rescue.  Now — doesn't  the  parallel  hit  you  between  the 
eyes?" 

"Looks  fishy,"  Derek  agreed.  "And  what  form  is  the  rescue 
to  take?" 

"Oh,  he'll  prop  up  the  firm  financially  by  the  grace  of  his  old 
Deutsche  Bank.  Boom  it  among  his  influential  friends  in  the 
City.  Probably  flood  it  with  German  shareholders.  And  it's 
to  be  'Burlton  and  Schonberg  Ltd.'  The  fellow's  got  us  fairly 
on  our  knees." 

"It's  simply  beastly,"  Derek  broke  out.     "But  if  we  will 


104  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

let  our  business  world  get  over-run  with  foreigners  — !  And 
your  father  doesn't  object?" 

"I  wish  to  God  he  did!  The  sheer  relief  of  it  blinds  him  to 
everything  else.  Also  his  faith  in  Schonberg.  I  told  him 
straight  he  was  selling  himself  to  the  devil;  that  the  whole 
concern  would  soon  be  German  from  top  to  bottom.  I  know, 
for  a  fact,  that  the  works  are  flooded  out  with  German  engineers 
and  accountants  and  clerks.  Cheaper  and  more  docile,  the 
guv'nor  says.  7  say  —  just  one  of  their  dodges  for  preparing 
the  ground.  I  told  him  he  could  halve  my  allowance,  that  I'd 
chuck  the  Army  and  go  into  any  old  hole;  and  I  knew  the  kids 
would  put  up  with  things  in  the  same  spirit.  I  frankly  in 
formed  him  he  was  as  blind  as  an  owl  in  daylight  where  Schon 
berg  and  Co.  were  concerned.  But  d'you  suppose  it  was  a 
mite  of  use?" 

Derek  didn't  suppose  so.  But,  even  in  this  tragic  emergency, 
his  first  thought  was:  "What  on  earth  would  happen  if  I  let  out 
like  that  to  Father?"  Aloud  he  said:  " I  expect  you  got  back 
a  Roland  for  your  Oliver — a  'young  fool'  for  your  'old  owl'!" 

Jack  assented  gloomily.  "That's  the  curse  of  it.  Old  owls 
have  such  an  unfair  pull,  even  if,  by  some  amazing  chance, 
the  young  fools  happen  to  be  in  the  right.  Because  he  once 
knew  one  kind  of  Germany,  he  can't,  or  won't,  believe  there's 
another  kind  that  we're  mostly  getting  over  here.  We  under- 
grads  know  a  thing  or  two  about  the  German  professors  and 
modern  German  education  —  don't  we?  But  where's  the 
damned  use  of  knowing  anything  when  you  only  get  called  a 
fool  for  your  pains?" 

Bitterness  was  so  foreign  to  Jack's  whole  nature  that  this  last 
made  a  deeper  impression  on  Derek  than  all  that  had  gone  before. 
But  he  had  small  skill  in  expressing  sympathy. 

"It's  a  disease  we're  safe  to  grow  out  of,"  he  remarked 
consolingly. 

"Yes  —  when  it's  too  late  to  be  any  use.  And  then  we'll 
be  on  the  way  to  becoming  old  owls  ourselves." 

Before  that  awful  prospect  they  were  both  silent.  Then 
Jack  heaved  another  portentous  sigh. 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  105 

"There!  I'm  through.  Thanks  awfully,  Dirks,  for  putting 
up  with  me.  It's  been  no  end  of  a  relief.  I  shall  go  for  Indian 
Cavalry,  if  Home  Cavalry  can't  be  did.  Blowed  if  I  touch 
Schonberg's  money.  —  You  might  open  another  window,  old 
chap.  The  room's  reeking;  and  I  don't  want  to  be  in  your  lady 
mother's  black  books." 

Derek  rose  and  stretched  himself.  "No  fear!  I'm  a  chronic 
offender.  Old  Con  won't  give  us  away." 

As  he  went  past  the  bed,  Jack  flung  out  a  hand  and  Derek's 
closed  upon  it  vigorously,  without  a  word. 


CHAPTER  V 

I  am  at  ease  now :  worldly,  in  this  world, 
I  take  and  like  its  way  of  life :  I  think 
My  brothers,  who  administer  the  means, 
Live  better  for  my  comfort  —  that's  good  too. 

BROWNING 

THE  heir  of  Avonleigh  was  troubled  in  spirit;  not  because  his 
father  would  soon  be  leaving  England,  but  because  the  proud 
load  of  responsibility  for  Avonleigh,  and  the  smaller  estate  of 
Trevanyon  on  the  Cornish  border,  would  then  rest  on  his  own 
shoulders.  And  Van  had  so  little  taste  for  responsibility  that  he 
would  make  a  long  circuit  to  evade  it.  Even  while  he  listened 
to  Lord  Avonleigh's  announcement,  that  Friday  evening,  he 
had  been  instinctively  casting  about  in  his  mind  for  ways  and 
means  to  that  end:  and  on  Saturday  night  an  inspiration  arrived. 

It  consisted  of  a  single  word  —  Karl. 

While  Jack,  on  one  side  of  the  wall,  wras  cursing  the  father, 
Van,  on  the  other,  was  thanking  Providence  for  the  son.  Could 
he  have  overheard  Jack's  tale,  he  would  probably  have  been 
moved  to  good-humoured  scepticism;  or,  like  Burlton,  would 
have  fortified  himself  against  suspicion  by  dismissing  him  as  a 
young  fool.  And  in  both  cases  the  instinct  sprang  from  the 
same  root. 

To  outward  appearance  there  seemed  little  enough  in  common 
between  the  young  Oxford  intellectual  and  the  middle-aged 
business  man:  yet,  in  both,  the  slippered  ease  of  mental  and 
spiritual  security  prevailed  over  the  love  of  truth.  By  different 
routes,  they  had  reached  the  same  terminus;  and  of  both  it  may 
safely  be  said  that  they  would  sooner  hug  a  comfortable  illusion 
than  suffer  the  discomposure  of  a  mental  spring  cleaning.  So 
each,  in  his  own  characteristic  fashion,  unwittingly  assisted 
the  march  of  Fate. 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  107 

Van,  it  must  be  owned,  had  no  earthly  reason  to  distrust 
young  Schonberg.  The  t.vo  had  gone  up  to  Balliol  the  same 
year:  Van  from  Eton;  Karl,  as  a  science  scholar  from  Harrow. 
A  mutual  taste  for  music  and  sheer  temperamental  antithesis 
had  drawn  them  together. 

Karl  was  assiduous  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge.  Van  had 
never  been  assiduous  in  the  pursuit  of  anything  —  except  a 
pretty  woman.  Yet  he  wras  potentially  the  cleverer  of  the  two. 
He  possessed  a  fair  share  of  his  father's  fine  mentality,  blanketed 
by  the  intellectual  apathy  of  his  mother;  and  he  was  apt  to  get 
more  credit  for  his  buried  talents  than  those  who  made  the  most 
of  lesser  gifts.  At  Eton  he  had  achieved  little  beyond  a  wide 
popularity  and  a  certain  distinction  in  the  cricket-field.  At 
Oxford  —  well,  at  Oxford,  there  were  the  boats  and  breakfast 
parties  and  dinners  and  Union  debates,  and  billiards,  and  sen 
timental  summer  evenings  in  a  backwater,  with  the  pretty  girl 
of  the  moment;  —  in  fact,  every  conceivable  inducement  to 
cultivate  his  most  expensive  tastes.  So  schools  and  lectures 
had  been  rather  in  the  way.  Happily  lectures  could  be  cut;  and 
that  seemed  to  be  their  raison  d'etre  in  the  set  to  which  he  had 
gravitated  by  the  law  of  human  magnetism. 

It  was  Karl  who  had  first  shaken  the  comfortable  conviction 
that  this  kind  of  thing  was  not  the  highroad  to  honours;  and 
Van  coveted  honours  for  the  credit  of  the  family.  Karl  did  not 
cut  lectures  to  any  extent;  and,  as  they  grew  more  intimate, 
Van  would  discover  that  on  convivial  nights  —  while  he  had 
been  dancing  and  drinking  unlimited  champagne  Karl  had  been 
sitting  up  with  a  pipe  and  strong  coffee  and  a  pile  of  books  on 
physical  science. 

"I've  told  my  father  I  shall  take  a  First;  and  I  intend  to  do 
so,"  was  his  justification  of  this  unorthodox  behaviour,  to 
which  Van  objected  on  principle;  partly  because  it  was  incon 
venient;  chiefly  because  it  seemed  a  tacit  reflection  on  himself. 
So  he  had  taken  a  perverse  pleasure  in  luring  his  friend  from 
the  path  of  virtue:  no  such  hard  matter  once  he  discovered  the 
weak  links  in  his  armour  —  music  and  women.  Karl  was 
amorous  and  sentimental;  and  at  banquets  or  'blinds,'  when  he 


io8  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

reached  the  stage  of  'having  drink  taken,'  he  was  the  best  com 
pany  in  the  world. 

But  in  the  middle  of  his  second  year,  his  Teutonic  brain  re 
asserted  itself;  and  there  had  been  something  like  a  scene.  It 
was  Karl's  declaration  of  independence;  and  it  had  the  un 
looked-for  effect  of  spurring  Van  to  up  and  convince  his  friend 
that  a  Blount  could  shine  with  the  best  of  them  if  he  chose. 
But,  like  the  hare  in  the  fable,  he  had  slept  too  long.  He  suc 
ceeded  in  winning  the  Newdigate.  In  the  schools,  he  had  to  be 
content  with  a  Second,  while  Karl  secured  his  First. 

His  disappointment  had  been  keen  and  galling;  but  he  had 
consoled  himself  with  the  reflection  that  at  last  the  troublesome 
process  of  education  had  come  to  an  end  for  good.  The  idea 
that  it  could,  or  should,  be  a  lifelong  process  had  never  visited 
his  brain.  That  was  the  fundamental  difference  between  him 
self  and  Derek.  In  Van's  eyes,  Eton  and  Balliol  were  simply 
caste  marks  of  the  first  order;  hence  their  intrinsic  value. 

As  for  Karl,  though  he  loved  the  grey  city  of  spires,  he  tended 
to  see  it  as  a  sort  of  intellectual  farmyard,  where  brains  were 
scientifically  crammed  for  degrees  that  were  practical  means 
to  an  end.  After  Oxford,  he  had  gone  to  the  German  School 
of  Forestry  at  Asschaffenburg,  where  he  filled  a  fresh  set  of 
mental  pigeon-holes;  and  from  forestry  his  untiring  brain  had 
passed  on  to  the  problems  of  scientific  agriculture.  Under  the 
tutelage  of  a  first-class  land  agent,  he  had  done  such  good  work 
that  already  he  himself  aspired  to  an  agency;  which  sane  and 
modest  ambition  Van  had  been  suddenly  moved  to  fulfil. 

The  more  he  looked  at  his  inspiration  the  better  pleased  he 
felt  with  himself  and  it.  To  dethrone  Malcolm  was,  unluckily, 
impossible;  Lord  Avonleigh's  faith  in  the  man  was  implicit; 
and  so  any  step  towards  limiting  his  sphere  of  influence  would 
have  to  be  cautiously  taken.  But  the  idea  of  Karl  as  his  lieu 
tenant  was  so  alluring  that  no  minor  considerations  could  be 
allowed  to  thwart  it. 

Moreover,  his  flattering  offer  might  serve  to  oil  the  wheels 
of  things.  For  there  were  unsettled  scores  between  these  two 
that  intermittently  worried  Van's  not  too  exacting  conscience: 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  109 

and  Karl  had  been  known  to  make  disconcerting  remarks.  An 
appointment,  with  a  good  salary  out  of  his  father's  pocket, 
could  scarcely  be  twisted,  even  by  Van,  into  the  payment  of  his 
own  private  debt;  but  it  would  ease  his  mind  to  do  Karl  a  serv 
ice  that  would  incidentally  be  a  boon  to  himself.  He  would 
spring  the  proposal  on  him  to-morrow.  And  there  was  a  cer 
tain  fifty  pounds,  dating  from  a  good  while  back.  It  might  be 
as  well  to  pay  that  off;  an  earnest  of  more  to  follow  when  the 
convenient  moment  arrived. 

Sunday  was  always  a  quiet  day  at  Avonleigh.  Its  sacred 
character  was  officially  recognized,  though  individuals  were  free 
to  disregard  it  if  they  chose.  Derek  and  Jack  unhesitatingly 
did  choose.  They  were  already  in  the  saddle  while  the  rest  of 
the  party  were  still  standing  about  round  the  log  fire  in  the  hall 
—  the  friendliest  gathering  place  in  the  whole  house  —  with  its 
vast  armchairs,  oak  settees,  and  Persian  rugs;  its  portraits  of 
bygone  Blounts  and  its  unique  collection  of  mediaeval  armour. 

Outside,  it  was  a  morning  to  charm  away  the  blackest  shadow 
of  care  that  ever  sat  behind  a  horseman:  and  when  the  elders 
drove  off  to  Ashbourne  Church,  Van  and  Karl  drifted  into  the 
billiard  room.  Both  were  inveterate  players;  and  the  billiard 
table  was  responsible  for  a  good  many  of  those  awkward  corners 
that  had  left  Van  so  deeply  indebted  to  his  friend.  Thanks 
mainly  to  Karl's  backing,  he  had  won  through  his  four  years 
at  Oxford  with  no  more  than  a  mere  hillock  of  debt  —  visible 
to  the  naked  eye.  For  he  set  great  store  by  his  home  halo; 
and  did  his  best  to  keep  it  bright. 

They  played  one  closely  contested  game  before  Van  sprang 
his  inspiration  on  the  unsuspecting  Karl.  Then,  as  he  clicked 
the  ivory  markers  back  into  position,  he  asked  conversationally: 
"Have  you  done  any  more  about  that  job  you  mentioned  last 
week?" 

"No.  It's  in  Norfolk.  A  biggish  place.  Good  money. 
But  I'm  not  dead  keen." 

He  spoke  absently,  in  jerks.  He  was  moving  round  the 
table,  making  cannons  of  the  silkiest  softness  at  impossible 


no  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

angles;  and  Van,  having  lit  a  cigarette,  stood  watching  him, 
fascinated  by  his  uncanny  accuracy  of  hand  and  eye. 

Externally,  there  was  little  of  the  Teuton  about  Karl,  except 
for  his  prominent,  light-blue  eyes  and  a  slight  thickness  about 
the  full  view  of  his  nostrils  and  lips.  In  profile,  his  nose  was 
straight  and  comely.  His  moustache  studiously  refrained  from 
any  upward  curve,  and  his  thatch  of  straw-coloured  hair  was 
brushed  backwards  in  correct  fashion,  from  a  remarkably  capable 
forehead.  His  dress  and  manners  bore  the  Public  School  and 
University  stamp  —  a  stamp  it  had  become  the  fashion  to  de 
ride  before  it  proved  itself,  on  battlefields  and  in  training  camps, 
the  hall-mark  of  the  race. 

"When  you  say  'a  biggish  place,'"  Van  remarked,  after  his 
silence,  "d'you  mean  anywhere  near  the  size  of  this?" 

"Lord,  no!  A  man  doesn't  expect  to  start  at  the  top  of  the 
tree." 

"  Sometimes  he  can  start  a  good  way  up,  if  he's  lucky  enough 
to  have  exceptional  capacity  —  and  friends  in  the  right  quarter." 

At  that  Karl  left  off  making  cannons,  and  looked  hard  at  Van, 
who  leaned  against  the  window  frame  caressing  his  moustache. 

"What  are  you  getting  at?" 

Van  looked  back  at  him  with  his  most  engaging  smile.  "  What 
I'd  like  to  be  getting  at  is  the  chance  of  harnessing  your 
exceptional  capacity  to  the  woods  and  fields  of  Avonleigh, 
which  you  said  yourself,  last  week,  would  repay  more  scientific 
handling." 

Karl's  grunt  of  astonishment  was  emphasized  by  the  thud  of 
his  cue  on  the  carpet. 

"You  mean  me  to  take  that  seriously?" 

"Why  not?     I  wasn't  perpetrating  a  ponderous  joke." 

"But,  my  dear  chap  —  in  the  first  place  there  isn't  a  va 
cancy;  in  the  second,  I'm  not  exactly  persona  grata  with  your 
father—" 

"My  father  leaves  for  India  next  month.  He'll  be  gone 
five  years,"  Van  announced  with  his  faint  drawl;  and  seat 
ing  himself  on  the  cushioned  sill  he  proceeded  to  unfold  the 
situation. 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  in 

Karl  listened,  half  perched  on  the  rim  of  the  billiard  table, 
thoughtfully  swinging  one  foot. 

"So  you  see,"  Van  concluded  with  a  Jove-like  nod,  "I  shall 
be  pretty  well  master  here  —  for  a  good  spell.  'Course  I  can't 
shift  Malcolm  altogether.  But  I'm  out  for  up-to-date  im 
provements;  and  I'll  need  an  intelligent  expert  like  yourself  to 
back  me  up.  A  sort  of  locum  tenens.  You  don't  catch  me 
vegetating  at  Avonleigh.  And  as  you've  a  natural  taste  for  the 
country,  the  whole  thing  dovetails  rather  neatly  —  what?" 

Karl  sucked  in  his  lips  and  released  them  with  a  smack;  an 
ugly  trick  that  always  annoyed  Van. 

"Naturally,  I'd  like  to  work  for  you;  and  being  here  so  much, 
I've  observed  things  a  bit.  But — surely  you  need  some  one 
more  experienced?" 

"Oh,  of  course  if  you're  such  a  modest  violet  I  must  look 
elsewhere."  Van's  tone  was  noticeably  cooler.  Karl's  caution 
and  lack  of  enthusiasm  hurt  his  vanity. 

"You  seem  in  a  mighty  hurry  to  chuck  me!"  that  young  man 
remarked  with  perfect  good-humour. 

"  Chuck  you?     Why,  you  won't  even  look  at  my  offer." 

"Don't  be  a  bally  ass,  Van.  I'm  staring  at  it  with  all  my 
eyes." 

He  slipped  off  the  table  and  seated  himself  in  the  window. 

Van  proffered  cigarettes.     "Russians,"  he  said. 

Karl  helped  himself.     "Have  you  spoken  to  Lord  Avonleigh?  " 

"No.     I  only  thought  of  it  last  night." 

"D'you  suppose  —  he  would  approve?" 

"I  really  don't  know.  He  might  get  worrying  for  fear  it 
should  make  friction.  But  I've  every  right  to  choose  my  man, 
so  long  as  I  respect  his  sacred  Malcolm.  I  want  some  one  on 
the  spot  who  stands  for  me.  I  doubt  if  I'll  give  up  the  F.  O. 
job.  It's  interesting.  Keeps  you  in  the  know.  A  week-end 
with  the  pheasants,  an  occasional  tour  of  inspection,  and  a 
roaring  house-party  for  Christmas  —  that's  about  the  ticket. 
I  can  work  my  mother  once  I  get  her  to  myself.  I  shall  set  her 
up  in  Avonleigh  House  and  she'll  soon  be  wondering  how  she 
ever  stood  living  out  of  Town  — " 


ii2  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Karl's  sympathetic  smile  was  tinged  with  amusement.  "You 
evidently  intend  to  have  the  time  of  your  life." 

"Hope  so:  11  you  play  up  and  Malcolm  doesn't  make  himself 
a  nuisance.  I'll  find  decent  quarters  for  you;  and  there'll  al 
ways  be  a  bed  in  my  'digs.'  Officially,  I  shall  live  with  my 
mother.  But  I'll  hang  on  to  the  Albany  suite;  and  when  I'm 
bored  stiff  with  playing  the  dutiful  son,  I'll  haul  you  up  on  a 
telephone  wire  and  we'll  buzz  round  —  unofficially!"  Van's 
left  eyelid  twitched.  "Begin  to  see  daylight  now,  K?" 

"I'm  still  feeling  a  bit  dazzled,"  Karl  admitted  honestly. 
"You  want  me,  so  far  as  I  can,  to  make  the  woods  and  home 
farms  more  profitable  working  concerns?" 

"Precisely.  My  father  keeps  more  acres  under  corn  than 
most  big  landlords,  these  days.  Sticks  to  it  on  principle,  though 
it  doesn't  pay  as  it  should;  and  of  course  he  was  badly  let  down 
in  the  eighties  and  nineties  like  all  the  farming  world.  You 
talked  immensely  learned  last  week  about  ways  and  means  of 
getting  a  bigger  yield  from  the  same  acreage.  And  I  bet  you've 
picked  up  a  tip  or  two,  ambling  round  agricultural  Germany. 
We've  no  end  to  learn  from  your  country,  in  that  as  well  as 
other  things." 

"Not  my  country,  thanks  very  much."  Karl  corrected  him 
in  a  contained  voice,  and  Van  smilingly  accepted  the  rebuke. 

"Good  old  Karl!  A  shame  to  rag  you.  But,  nationally,  a 
man  takes  after  his  father." 

"Well  —  personally,  I  take  after  my  mother.  It's  her  I 
have  to  thank  for  the  priceless  boon  of  a  liberal  English  educa 
tion.  And  I've  spent  enough  of  my  vacs  in  Germany  to  know 
just  how  priceless  it  is." 

"Hear,  hear!"  Van  remarked  softly.  "One's  usually  led 
to  suppose  it's  the  other  way  round;  that  our  youngsters  are 
wasting  their  substance  on  riotous  athletics  and  husks  of  dead 
languages  when  they  ought  to  be  specializing  technically  for  all 
they're  worth." 

"That's  the  swing  of  the  pendulum,  and  no  doubt  it'll  swing 
too  far.  I've  had  the  luck  to  see  something  of  both  sides  and  I 
can  only  say,  'Commend  me  to  the  liberally  educated  muddler.' 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  113 

Nine-tenths  of  the  technically  trained  prodigies  are  working  for 
him,  and  under  him,  because  they're  not  fit  for  anything  else. 
Of  course  there  are  shining  exceptions  everywhere.  But,  take 
it  all  round,  Germany  is  grinding  out  a  race  of  highly  trained 
clerks  and  mechanics,  mostly  engaged  in  filling  the  pockets  of 
commercial  Jews.  England,  with  all  her  bungling,  is  still  turn 
ing  out  leaders  of  men." 

Van  lifted  his  eyebrows.  "You  seem  to  have  had  an  extra 
special  eye-opener  over  there  this  summer.  D'you  hold  forth 
in  that  vein  to  the  mighty  Schonberg?  He's  no  mere  clerk  or 
mechanic." 

"No.  He's  one  of  the  shining  exceptions.  We  get  a  good 
many  of  them  over  here;  and,  I  admit,  they  blaze  around  to 
some  purpose." 

"You  also  admitted  the  other  day  —  to  return  to  our  corn 
fields  —  that  they  manage  to  squeeze  twice  as  much  out  of  a 
hundred  acres  of  poor  soil,  in  a  harsh  climate,  as  our  fellows  do, 
with  soil  and  climate  in  their  favour.  What's  the  recipe? 
But  you've  got  it  all  at  your  fingers'  ends,  you  walking 
encyclopaedia!" 

Karl's  conversation  for  the  next  fifteen  minutes  bristled  with 
technicalities  enough  to  justify  the  epithet  and  bewilder  the 
brain  of  his  liberally  educated  friend.  He  supported  his  facts 
with  figures :  and  Van's  lazy  amusement  was  tinged  with  respect. 
He  still  constantly  found  himself  astonished  at  the  varied 
amount  of  practical  knowledge  Karl  kept  up  his  sleeve,  ready 
for  service  as  required. 

When  all  was  said,  he  remarked  genially:  "Couldn't  follow 
half  of  it.  But  if  you'll  only  play  up  and  work  a  few  of  those 
miracles  here,  I'd  get  no  end  of  kudos  for  discovering  such  a 
treasure!" 

Karl  smiled  at  that  characteristic  inducement.  "You  can't 
work  miracles  with  the  land,"  he  said.  "It's  a  matter  of  steady 
plodding  in  the  right  direction;  and  over  here  the  human  ele 
ment's  against  it.  The  British  farmer's  a  distrustful  beggar  — 
not  without  good  reason.  It's  not  that  he's  merely  ignorant; 
his  whole  level  of  intelligence  wants  lifting.  He  also  badly 


ii4  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

wants  the  security  of  State  aid  and  protection,  which  he  isn't 
likely  to  get  while  Free  Traders  rule  the  waves." 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  we  can't  burden  the  country  with 
tariffs  simply  on  his  account." 

Karl  shrugged.  It  was  an  old  bone  of  contention.  "Then 
you  must  accept,"  he  said,  "the  farmer's  lack  of  enterprise." 

"Very  well  —  I  accept  it!  All  the  same,  with  a  man  like 
you  in  charge,  we  might  get  a  move  on.  Scientific  treatment  of 
the  soil  —  fertilizers  and  things—  But  the  point  is  —  what 
about  my  proposal?  Are  you  game?" 

Karl  looked  thoughtful  again.    Then  he  said  frankly:  "You 

must  admit  that,  so  far,  it's  all  a  trifle  sketchy.    Naturally  I'd 

like  to  feel  sure  your  father's  agreeable  and  that  Mr.  Malcolm 

—  even  if  he  isn't  agreeable  —  would  not  be  obstructive.    As 

it  is,  my  position's  quite  undefined." 

"I  —  see,"  Van  said,  with  a  deliberate  drawl.  "Truth  is, 
you'd  sooner  boss  a  smaller  place  than  play  second  fiddle  here. 
And  the  fact  that  I'm  keen  on  the  plan  doesn't  affect  your 
business  point  of  view." 

At  that  Karl  fairly  lost  his  temper. 

"If  you're  death  on  talking  such  putrid  rot,  God  himself 
can't  prevent  you,"  he  retorted,  and  walked  away  to  the  mantel 
piece.  Then  he  swung  round  and  looked  hard  at  his  friend, 
who  still  sat  there  smoking,  apparently  unperturbed.  "You 
know  you  didn't  mean  that,  Van.  You  know  I'm  a  cautious 
mover.  And  if  I  put  my  back  into  a  thing,  I  want  to  feel  I  can 
hang  on  long  enough  to  reap  results.  But  you  say  yourself 
it's  all  in  the  air  as  yet.  So  I  vote  we  drop  it,  till  your  affairs 
are  more  settled  —  and  get  on  with  our  game.  Meantime,  I 
won't  accept  anything  else.  That  satisfy  you?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I'm  agreeable,"  Van  answered  coolly.  "I  shan't 
worry  you  again.  If  you  want  the  job  you  can  say  so.  Now  — 
come  on.  I  owe  you  a  licking;  and  I  shall  have  particular 
pleasure  in  administering  it!" 

The  achievement  took  tune  and  all  Van's  skill,  for  they  were 
well  matched.  When  it  was  over,  he  laid  an  envelope  on  the 
table, 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  115 

"Your  fifty,"  he  remarked  genially.  "A  good  deal  overdue. 
Thanks  very  much  —  and  all  that." 

"Sure  you  can  spare  it  conveniently?     I'm  in  no  hurry." 

"That's  a  mercy,   'coz  it's  all  I  can  spare  conveniently  — 
just  at  the  moment." 

Karl  pocketed  the  envelope.  "Don't  worry  about  that,  old 
chap,"  he  said.  "I'm  always  glad  to  be  of  use." 

" With  reservations!"  Van  reminded  him  feelingly:  and  they 
went  on  into  the  hall  where  they  found  the  elders  just  back 
from  church. 


CHAPTER  VI 

One  sleeps,  indeed,  and  wakes  at  intervals  .  .  . 
And  my  provision's  for  life's  waking  part; 
Accordingly,  I  use  heart,  head  and  hand ; 
All  day  I  build,  scheme,  study  —  and  make  friends. 

BROWNING 

ON  Monday  they  had  a  great  day  with  the  partridges;  and  on 
Tuesday  Karl  departed,  leaving  Van  still  mystified  and  a  trifle 
on  edge.  He  spent  most  of  the  week  lecturing  at  a  big  Agri 
cultural  College;  and  on  Saturday  he  travelled  North. 

He  had  small  love  for  the  great  gloomy  manufacturing  town, 
in  which  Adolf  Schonberg  and  John  Burlton  were  leading  lights; 
but  he  was  fond  of  his  father,  though  there  was  little  intimacy 
and  less  understanding  between  them.  Very  early  and  very 
decidedly  he  had  announced  his  unwillingness  to  enter  any  one 
of  the  elder  Schonberg's  prosperous  lines  of  business;  and  his 
own  modest  ambition  had,  at  first,  been  treated  as  a  whim  un 
worthy  of  serious  opposition.  Then,  suddenly,  Schonberg  had 
changed  his  tune;  and  if  the  boy  wondered  a  little,  he  had  asked 
no  questions.  The  fact  sufficed. 

His  own  English  upbringing  —  a  concession  to  his  mother  — 
had  inevitably  tended  to  separate  father  and  son;  and  devotion 
to  the  memory  of  one  dead  woman  was,  by  this  time,  the  only 
strong  link  between  them.  For  Karl  knew  very  well  that  his 
father's  second  marriage  implied  no  change  of  heart  towards 
her,  who  had  been  the  sole  romance  of  his  life.  It  was  the  duty 
of  all  good  Germans  to  propagate  the  race;  and  Schonberg 
needed  a  woman  in  the  house.  That  was  his  common-sense 
view  of  the  matter;  and  his  occasional  remarks  on  the  subject 
were  frank  to  a  point  that  jarred  on  Karl's  finer  susceptibilities, 
even  while  he  appreciated  his  father's  somewhat  peculiar  notion 
of  loyalty  to  the  dead. 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  117 

Because  of  that  loyalty,  Karl  had  been  reluctant  to  suspect 
the  nature  of  Schonberg's  manifold  business  activities.  Out 
wardly,  he  seemed  as  amicable  to  England  as  his  son;  even 
when  he  laughed  at  her  failings  and  extolled  the  greatness  of 
Germany.  But  —  as  Karl  grew  in  years  and  knowledge  — 
his  young  suspicions  deepened  to  an  innate  distrust  that  had 
kept  him  clear  of  all  business  connection  with  his  father;  and 
partly  accounted  for  his  doubtful  attitude  towards  Van's  aston 
ishing  offer.  Not  that  he  seriously  supposed  Schonberg  had 
the  will  or  the  power  to  harm  Lord  Avonleigh;  but  he  was 
Teuton  enough  to  know  that  his  inordinate  appetite  for  infor 
mation  could  not  be  dismissed  as  a  mere  hobby.  There  was 
direction  behind  it,  though  he  could  not  see  whither  it 
tended. 

It  was  true,  also,  that  he  had  felt  himself  accepted  at  Avon 
leigh  simply  as  Van's  friend;  and,  in  the  circumstances,  he 
demanded  more  individual  recognition.  He  knew  well  enough 
that,  if  Malcolm  proved  obstructive,  Van  would  keep  discreetly 
aloof  and  leave  him  to  bear  the  brunt.  It  was  a  pity,  too,  that 
he  was  so  casual  about  money.  Karl  wondered  whether  Lord 
Avonleigh  realized  it,  whether  it  would  complicate  their  busi 
ness  relations. 

On  his  northern  journey  he  had  leisure  to  consider  these  things, 
to  rate  himself  for  a  disloyal  son,  and  finally  to  decide  that,  if 
his  father  showed  any  eagerness  for  him  to  accept  the  less 
responsible  post,  he  would  risk  Van's  passing  annoyance  and 
refuse  outright. 

The  Schonbergs  and  Burltons  inhabited  large,  unbeautiful 
houses  on  the  outskirts  of  Randchester;  houses  with  immaculate 
front  windows,  and  gardens  decorously  screened  by  a  wall  of 
evergreens  from  prying  eyes.  Somewhere  beyond  the  evergreens 
you  would  find  the  inevitable  group  of  lilac,  laburnum  and  crim 
son  may;  with  a  cypress  thrown  in  for  dignity  or  a  weeping  ash 
for  shade.  Schonberg's  residence  was  named  'Freischiitz.' 
Burlton  had  christened  his  '  Warton  Grange.'  Driving  from  the 
station,  one  came  first  to  Warton  Grange;  and  Karl  spied  Mr. 
Burlton  on  the  gravel  path.  Norfolk  suit  and  tweed  cap  pro- 


n8  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

claimed  him  on  the  verge  of  his  week-end  flitting.  Karl  waved 
his  stick,  shouted  to  the  driver  and  sprang  out. 

"Take  my  traps  on,  will  you? "  he  said,  "and  say  I'll  be  com 
ing  along  shortly." 

He  had  a  real  affection  for  'old  Burlton';  and,  on  the  whole, 
found  his  three  younger  boys  and  widowed  sister  more  congenial 
than  the  step  relations  at  'Freischiitz.'  But  it  puzzled  and 
disappointed  him  that  he  could  make  so  little  headway  with 
Jack.  He  knew,  from  remarks  at  home,  that  partnership  was 
in  the  air;  but  of  underlying  causes  he  had  not  the  remotest 
idea. 

John  Burlton  came  forward  with  a  friendly  smile  on  his  com 
monplace,  capable  face.  He  was  a  thick-set  man  in  the  early 
fifties;  externally  alert  and  mobile,  internally  slow-moving  and 
limited,  with  as  kind  a  heart  and  as  much  genuine  honesty  as  is 
compatible  with  success  in  the  'savage  wars  of  peace.'  Like 
many  Englishmen,  of  his  class  and  age,  he  was  more  concerned 
to  keep  his  figure  from  spreading  than  his  mind  from  rusting. 
He  belonged  to  the  type  of  man  —  common  enough  in  these 
islands — who  will  make  a  hard  and  fast  statement,  listen  placidly 
to  a  string  of  shattering  arguments,  and,  at  the  end,  repeat  his 
original  remark  as  if  no  dissenting  wrord  had  been  uttered.  Out 
side  his  human  affections,  the  pith  of  life  was  summed  up  for 
him  hi  two  words  —  Burltons  and  golf.  Five  days  of  the  week 
he  devoted  to  the  first;  two  to  the  second.  And  those  two 
days  were  sacrosanct.  Only  the  trump  of  doom  would  inter 
rupt  his  weekly  pursuit  of  the  elusive  ball  and  the  sacred  rite 
of  keeping  himself  'fit.'  Had  the  frivolous  ventured  to  inquire, 
"Fit  for  what?"  no  doubt  but  he  would  have  answered  gravely, 
"For  more  golf." 

"Just  flitting,  as  you  see!"  he  greeted  Karl  in  his  cheery 
week-end  voice.  The  week-end  voice  was  Jack's  invention; 
but  it  certainly  had  an  unmistakable  ring  seldom  heard  within 
the  four  walls  of  his  office.  "The  car'll  be  here  in  a  minute. 
You  home  for  long?" 

"Only  till  Monday.  That's  why  I  nipped  out.  Have  the 
youngsters  anything  on  to-morrow?" 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  119 

A  parlour  maid  appeared  at  the  front  door.  "The  telephone, 
please,  sir.  Mr.  Schonberg." 

With  a  muttered  expletive,  Burlton  hurried  back  to  the  study; 
and  Karl,  waiting  in  the  hall,  was  divided  between  sympathy 
and  amusement  as  he  listened  to  the  rapid  one-sided  soliloquy 
jerked  out  by  Burlton  in  tones  far  removed  from  those  of  his 
greeting. 

"Monday  —  first  thing  Monday  —  what?  But,  my  dear  fel 
low,  it's  impossible.  I'm  just  starting.  Yes  —  yes.  What? 
Oh,  7  don't  think  so."  A  longish  pause.  "There's  the  car 
coming  round  —  yes  —  yes,  I'll  look  in.  But,  confound  it  all, 
man,  I  shall  miss  my  train — !" 

The  click  of  the  receiver  on  its  hook  was  followed  by  the 
reappearance  of  Burlton,  his  week-end  aspect  clean  gone;  vexa 
tion  in  his  voice,  a  worried  look  about  his  eyes. 

"Never  knew  such  a  fellow  as  your  father  for  doing  things 
on  the  nail,"  he  said,  with  a  short  laugh.  "He  wants  me 
round  there.  Some  business  he's  convinced  won't  wait. 
There's  no  choking  him  off,  and  I'm  blest  if  I  shan't  lose 
my  train.  —  All  right,  Robson,  stow  in  the  traps  on  the 
chance."  This  to  the  mystified  chauffeur,  who  had  just 
announced  the  car. 

Then  he  thrust  his  head  into  the  drawing-room.  "  Good-bye, 
Alice.  Business  at  Schonberg's,  so  you  may  see  me  back,  un 
less  I  drive  the  whole  way.  Damned  if  I  -won't  drive  all  the 
way,"  he  added,  with  decision,  when  the  door  was  shut.  "Shall 
I  give  you  a  lift,  Karl?" 

As  they  rolled  smoothly  along  the  metalled  highway,  Burlton 
repeated,  in  a  more  genial  tone:  "Never  knew  such  a  fellow  as 
your  father.  I  don't  believe  he  has  two  ideas  in  his  head  out 
side  business.  Of  course  it's  half  the  secret  of  his  success.  But 
in  my  opinion  it's  good  for  a  man  to  shake  himself  free  now  and 
then.  Frankly,  Karl,  in  some  ways  he 's  one  of  the  most  amaz 
ing  men  I've  ever  met.  But  I  can't  have  him  playing  old 
Harry  with  my  week-ends!" 

Freischiitz  was  a  few  degrees  uglier  than  Warton  Grange: 
but  the  affinity  of  type  was  evident;  and  the  house  was  still 


120  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

further  disfigured  by  Mrs.  Schonberg's  deplorable  taste  in 
curtains. 

The  sound  of  the  car  brought  Schonberg  to  the  door  —  a 
bulky,  ill-dressed  figure  of  a  man;  firm,  fleshly,  and  powerful; 
the  hands  notably  so  with  a  large  thumb  which  he  used  to  en 
force  his  arguments  or  his  will.  And  the  face  matched  those 
forcible  hands:  prominent  eyes  under  a  vigorous  forehead,  a 
thick,  assertive  nose,  sensuous  mouth  and  good  strong  teeth 
stained  with  tobacco.  His  colourless  hair  and  moustache  were 
well  brushed  upward,  and  the  slight  droop  of  his  lids  gave  him  a 
misleading  air  of  indifference  which  he  found  very  useful  on 
occasion.  But  his  son  —  if  not  his  friend  —  was  quite  aware 
that  very  little  escaped  the  attention  of  those  sleepy-looking 
eyes,  or  of  the  brain  behind  them,  that  noted  and  registered 
every  serviceable  item  with  mechanical  precision. 

When  the  car  drew  up,  he  smiled  genially  and  waved  his 
hand. 

"Karl  alzo!  That  is  goot.  Golf-sticks  alzo!"  He  jerked  a 
derisive  thumb  towards  them.  "You  still  belief  you  will  go?" 

"Of  course  I  shall."  Burlton  answered  doggedly.  "Come 
on.  Let's  get  through  with  the  business  as  soon  as  possible." 

Schonberg  lifted  his  shoulders.  "To  make  way  for  the 
greater  business  —  hem?  It  will  be  ycur  ruin  yet,  my  friend, 
this  graze  for  walking  —  walking  —  walking  after  one  foolish 
leetle  white  ball.  Firmly  I  belief  you  would  prefer  losing  a 
big  deal  to  a  round  of  golf!" 

But  Burlton  was  in  no  mood  to  appreciate  a  sally  at  his  own 
expense.  "I  have  yet  to  learn  that  the  interests  of  the  firm 
have  ever  been  neglected  for  my  hobby,"  he  replied  with  a  touch 
of  stiffness.  "I  earn  my  leisure  and  I  work  the  better  for  it." 

"Well  —  well,  we  will  not  guarrel  over  my  little  choke. 
Gome,  you  shall  hear  if  I  had  reason  to  upset  your  plans."  He 
laid  a  heavy,  affectionate  hand  on  Karl's  shoulder.  "  Glad  to 
see  you,  my  boy.  We  shall  talk  later.  Business  first,  pleasure 
after  —  even  if  it  is  weeg-end  —  hein?  " 

The  two  exchanged  a  smile  of  amused  understanding  before 
Schonberg  followed  his  unwilling  guest.  For  all  his  inflexi- 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  121 

bility,  the  man  had  a  strong  human  streak  in  him  and  strong 
passions,  both  kept  in  a  separate  compartment  from  that  un 
wavering,  inhuman  machine  —  his  business  brain. 

Nearly  an  hour  passed  before  Karl  heard  the  study  door  open, 
and  saw  —  from  the  windows  of  his  own  smoky  sanctum  — 
Burlton's  car  roll  away  through  the  gathering  dusk.  Then  he 
strolled  in  to  see  his  father  whom  he  found  —  as  always  —  in 
his  big  swivel  chair,  a  cork  pen  in  his  hand,  a  drooping  German 
pipe  between  his  teeth. 

On  his  expansive  desk  not  a  paper  was  out  of  place.  Every 
pigeon-hole  was  neatly  packed;  and  the  shelves  that  rose  above 
them  held  books  of  reference  and  scientific  journals  dealing 
with  an  amazing  variety  of  subjects.  In  the  window,  on  a 
heavy  polished  table  stood  a  castor-oil  plant  in  a  rotund  pink 
bowl  that  clashed  violently  with  its  magenta  mat.  There  were 
faded  red  velvet  curtains,  and  privacy  was  secured  by  a  Jap 
anese  bamboo  blind.  Over  the  mantelpiece  hung  a  water- 
colour  study  of  Karl's  mother  —  the  one  relatively  beautiful 
thing  in  the  room.  It  was  a  tender,  intelligent,  wistful  face, 
with  eyes  that  seemed  to  follow  you  when  you  moved.  Directly 
under  the  picture  stood  a  vase  of  early  chrysanthemums.  Winter 
or  summer,  that  vase  held  its  tribute  of  flowers  from  the  man 
who  had  married  again  eighteen  months  after  her  death. 

A  folding  leather  screen  held  the  four  younger  Schonbergs; 
but  the  good  Anna,  who  had  contributed  these  human  legacies 
to  the  Fatherland,  was  nowhere  in  evidence.  Karl  often  won 
dered  whether  the  omission  hurt  her  feelings,  or  whether  she 
even  noticed  it?  If  she  did,  she  gave  no  sign. 

The  whole  room,  though  shabby  and  unlovely,  had  an  air  of 
homely  comfort;  but  it  was  stuffy  to  the  point  of  suffocation 
and  it  reeked  of  strong  tobacco. 

Schonberg  greeted  his  son  with  a  guttural  "Aha!"  removed 
his  spectacles  and  indicated  a  deep  leather  chair  near  the  fire. 
In  that  chair,  facing  the  window,  sat  all  his  visitors.  He  him 
self,  when  he  turned  his  swivel  seat  to  confront  them,  had  his 
back  to  the  light.  It  is  a  common  trick  of  diplomatists,  and 
it  had  often  served  him  well. 


122  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Sure I'm  not  interrupting?"  Karl  asked  as  he  sat  down;  and 
Schonberg's  wide  smile  revealed  all  his  teeth. 

"  Sush  an  interruption  I  could  more  often  put  up  with !  But 
we  cannot  offer  you,  here,  the  attractions  of  Afonleigh 
Hall." 

"That's  an  unfair  hit!"  Karl  retorted,  and  shied  away 
from  the  subject.  "Is  Burlton  really  going  to  drive  out  to 
Warton  this  evening?" 

Schonberg  shrugged.  "I  machine  not.  Poor  defil!  He 
must  sleep  Friday  night  in  his  own  bett.  He  shall  miss  one 
round  after  his  leetle  white  ball;  so  he  has  no  thanks  for  me, 
though  to-day  I  haf  done  him  a  goot  turn,  worth  to  miss  three 
weeg-ends  for.  Ach,  these  English!  In  all  the  years  I  haf 
known  them,  never  haf  I  come  to  understand  their  madness  of 
a  ball— " 

"It's  a  very  healthy  sort  of  madness." 

Schonberg  regarded  him  thoughtfully;  then  he  looked  up  at 
the  face  of  his  dead  wife.  "  You  are  nearly  so  bad.  Not  quite. 
Because  of  her  wish,  I  haf  made  you  almost  one  of  them.  But 
—  Gott  sei  dank!  You  haf  more  sense  — " 

"I'm  not  so  sure!  I  didn't  find  any  lack  of  brains  at  Ox 
ford—" 

"Cht-cht!"  Oxford  was  dismissed  with  a  gesture.  "Brains 
are  of  one  kind.  Sense  is  of  another.  I  am  still  so  often  aston 
ished—as  to-night  —  how  they  are  fools!"  Suddenly  he 
raised  his  heavy  lids,  revealing  the  pale  iris'  full  circle  and 
changing  in  a  flash  the  whole  aspect  of  his  face.  "Ach  zo,  the 
goot  Gott  knows  his  business.  Wise  and  foolish  created  he 
them  —  so  the  wise  should  profit  by  the  arranchement!" 

"D'you  mean  —  take  advantage?"  Karl  asked  quietly,  and 
something  in  his  tone  checked  the  older  man's  unusual  burst 
of  frankness.  His  face  resumed  its  look  of  sleepy  geniality. 

"More  often  lose  than  take,  my  boy,"  he  answered  lightly. 
"But  you  are  here  to  tell  me  news  —  of  your  lectures  and  your 
fine  friends.  You  had  a  goot  time  —  hein?" 

"Ripping  time.  I  always  do.  I'm  going  there  later  for  the 
pheasants."  He  paused;  then  added  casually:  "They've  just 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  123 

had  a  bomb-shell  sprung  on  them.    Lord  Avonleigh's  going  to 
India  next  month,  as  Governor  of  Bombay — " 

Again  that  sudden,  odd  lift  of  the  lids.  "A-ach!  They 
send  him  to  India?  No  fool  —  he.  A  strong  man.  But 
what  will  come  to  Afonleigh?  Your  dear  friend  is  too  mush 
man-about-town  to  lif  there.  They  will  shut  it  up?  Perhaps 
let  — 

"I  haven't  an  idea.  Van  has  his  work  at  the  Foreign  Office. 
But  he's  keen  about  the  place,  too.  He  actually  suggested 
putting  me  in  charge  of  the  woods  and  home  farms  to  make 
them  more  profitable  working  concerns." 

"You?"  Schonberg  drew  in  his  lips  precisely  as  Karl  had 
done  when  Van  broached  the  idea.  Then  he  sat  silent,  puffing 
at  his  pipe  and  regarding  his  son  with  sleepy,  inscrutable  eyes. 
"And  you  accepted  —  hein?" 

"Oh,  no,"  Karl  answered  lightly.  "It  wras  just  a  suggestion, 
because  he  knows  I've  studied  things  pretty  thoroughly." 

"You  can  thank  Cherman  blood  for  that.  Begoz  of  it,  we 
become  always  more  indispensable  to  lazier  peoples.  How  are 
you  inclined  yourself?  " 

"I'm  thinking  things  over.  Of  course  I'd  like  Avonleigh. 
But  I  want  to  know  just  what  my  position  would  be  — 

"To  tague  all  trouble  off  his  shoulders  and  win  credit  for  him 
in  his  father's  eyes!"  Schonberg  answered  with  a  guttural 
chuckle.  "That  is  the  fashion  of  these  young  lordlings.  I 
know  them !  But  Afonleigh  is  a  fine  estate.  It  is  pozzible  you 
would  haf  a  pretty  free  hand.  And  af terwards  —  who  can  tell?  " 

Karl  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  flatter  myself  I'm  likely  to 
step  into  Mr.  Malcolm's  shoes.  I  gather  he's  not  easy  to  work 
with.  And  of  course  in  Norfolk  I  should  practically  run  the 
show." 

"That  is  the  tempting  bait!  Nashural  enough!"  And 
Schonberg  fell  into  a  thoughtful  silence  staring  at  the  fire. 

Karl,  surreptitiously  scanning  his  face,  was  pricked  with 
sharp  curiosity.  If  one  could  but  lift  the  curtain  and  read  the 
writing  on  the  brain!  Nothing  his  father  had  said  showed  the 
slightest  bias  one  way  or  the  other:  yet  —  for  no  definable 


i24  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

reason  —  Karl  felt  more  uncertain  of  him  than  ever.  He  had 
looked  for  a  sign,  and  the  very  fact  that  he  had  found  none  re 
awakened  suspicion.  He  knew  his  father  for  a  man  of  definite 
opinions  —  often  aggressively  so.  Yet  he  had  refrained  even 
from  proffering  a  word  of  advice. 

"Why  on  earth — ?"  mused  bewildered  Karl;  and  his  be 
wilderment  was  tinged  with  annoyance.  He  had  imbibed  at 
school  and  college  a  love  of  straight  dealing;  and  in  his  father's 
presence  he  was  constantly  worried  by  the  sense  of  hidden  cur 
rents  that  effectively  killed  all  frank,  natural  intercourse.  So 
he  sat  silent  waiting  for  Schonberg's  next  remark. 

"Hanged  if  I'll  give  him  a  lead,"  he  thought,  with  a  touch  of 
boyish  obstinacy.  "Even  if  I  have  to  stick  it  out  for  half  an 
hour." 

Happily  he  was  not  so  severely  taxed.  He  got  off  with  seven 
minutes  by  the  black  marble  clock.  Then  Schonberg  removed 
his  pipe  and  shifted  his  eyes  to  his  son's  face.  They  had  no 
softness  in  them  except  when  they  rested  on  Karl  —  his  Freda's 
legacy. 

"Well,  well,  you  shall  think  it  ofer,"  he  said.  "It  is  your 
affair.  I  would  bet  ten  pounds  the  scales  are  tilted  towards 
Afonleigh  and  your  friend  Fan!" 

"I  wouldn't  be  surprised!"  Karl  answered  with  a  non 
committal  smile  and  heaved  himself  out  of  the  deep  chair  —  a 
little  of  the  study  atmosphere  went  a  long  way. 

"Nor  I!  Only  remember  —  if  it  is  Viscount  Afonleigh  or 
Sir  Thomas  Wade,  you  haf  first-glass  qualifications  and  your 
serfices  are  worth  goot  money.  Now  I  haf  letters  to  finish. 
Sush  a  pile!  No  slack  time  for  me  —  if  it  is  weeg-end!  Per 
haps  goot  lug  for  Burlton  7  do  not  run  after  balls  or  make  a  dust 
all  ofer  the  country  egsercising  my  car!" 

"Is  the  partnership  coming  off,  then?" 

"That  is  for  Burlton  to  say.  I  haf  made  myself  useful.  It 
is  the  duty  of  all  goot  Chermans  abroad.  If  indispensable  —  zo 
much  the  better  — 

"You're  still  a  good  German  abroad  —  yet  you  choose  tq 
live  here  as  a  naturalized  subject?" 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  125 

Schonberg  adjusted  his  spectacles  and  vouchsafed  his  son  a 
benign  smile.  "It  is  precizely  abroad  that  goot  Chermans  haf 
the  most  important  werg  to  do  —  for  the  benefit  of  both  goun- 
tries,  my  son!"  And  with  that  cryptic  remark  Karl  had  to 
rest  content,  though  the  word  did  not  accurately  describe  his 
state  of  mind. 

Ten  days  later  came  a  letter  from  Van. 

MY  DEAR  OLD  CHAP,  — 

I  have  braved  the  elements  on  your  behalf  and  write  to  let  you 
know  that  the  coast  is  clear.  I  said  I  wouldn't  make  the  next  move. 
But  man  is  the  victim  of  his  virtues,  and  my  natural  magnanimity 
has  carried  the  day.  So  —  if  you  are  agreeable,  roll  along  our  way  on 
Friday.  Birds  are  plentiful,  and  you  can  see  for  yourself  if  my  father 
is  agreeable  enough  to  satisfy  your  modesty  and  proper  pride  and  all 
that.  As  regards  my  own  feelings,  you  know  as  much  as  you  deserve 
to  know.  So  tumble  along  and  don't  be  a  ruddy  fool  —  and  you 
won't  regret  it! 

Yours  —  within  reasonable  limits, 

V.  B. 

Karl,  having  made  up  his  mind,  re-read  that  characteristic 
effusion  with  a  pensive  smile.  "That  about  settles  it,"  he  said. 

Later  on,  when  he  and  his  father  were  alone,  he  decided  to 
announce  matters  without  preamble.  "See  if  I  can  make  him 
jump!"  was  his  filial  thought.  But  cleverer  men  than  Karl 
had  tried  the  same  experiment  without  success. 

He  guilefully  chose  a  moment  when  his  father  seemed  lost  in 
reflection  to  remark  abruptly:  "I've  accepted  Avonleigh.  You 
were  right  about  the  scales!" 

Schonberg,  who  was  fingering  two  walnut  shells,  did  not  even 
look  up  from  his  plate. 

"Zo!"  he  gurgled  in  subterranean  depths;  and  regarded  his 
son  with  an  enigmatical  smile.  "  Goot  business  for  your  friend 
Fan!  But  you  neffer  really  had  two  minds  about  it." 

The  last  was  so  unexpected  that  it  turned  the  tables  on  Karl. 

"I  don't  believe  I  ever  had,"  he  admitted;  and  directly  chal 
lenged  his  father's  gaze.  It  was  like  looking  at  two  bluish  discs 


126  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

of  ground  glass,  half  veiled  by  the  drooping  lids.  Karl  felt 
suddenly  annoyed.  He  believed  half  of  it  was  put  on  for  effect. 
Behind  those  inscrutable  eyes  his  father  was  as  soft-hearted  and 
sentimental  as  himself. 

"I'm  going  down  there  on  Friday,"  he  said,  to  break  the 
queer  feeling  of  tension  that  grew  with  the  silence. 

"To  take  over  charge?" 

"No  —  to  shoot  pheasants!  And  I  suppose  there  will  be  an 
interview  with  my  formidable  host!" 

He  grimaced  at  the  prospect  and  Schonberg  wagged  his 
sagacious  head  with  elephantine  playfulness.  "No  need  to 
fear  him.  He  is  doing  goot  business.  You  can  bet,  he  knows 
it." 

Rising,  he  strolled  over  to  the  hearth-rug;  and  Karl,  turning 
in  his  chair  to  face  the  fire,  found  his  father  looking  down  at  him 
with  eyes  that  were  no  longer  like  discs  of  ground  glass. 

"You  are  a  damn  goot  boy,  Karl,"  he  said  in  a  voice  of  real 
feeling.  It  was  a  discovery  he  made  periodically,  in  a  tone  of 
virginal  conviction;  and  Karl  wras  prepared  for  the  descent  of  a 
heavy  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "If  I  gave  up  my  own  wishes 
because  of  your  mother  you  have  neffer  caused  me  to  regret  it. 
Only  stick  on  at  Afonleigh,  and  you  will  replace  Mr.  Malcolm 
yet.  I  shall  come  down  to  visit  you  when  I  am  able.  And  if 
Mr.  Blount  shall  wish  to  let,  it  is  pozzible  I  can  help  — 

Karl  looked  up  quickly.  "You  seem  keen  on  his  letting. 
Have  you  got  a  bloated  tenant  up  your  sleeve?" 

"  In  the  world  of  finance  it  is  not  hard  to  find  bloated  tenants 
for  sush  a  place  as  that,"  he  answered,  removing  his  hand  and 
speaking  in  his  normal  voice. 

"I  don't  fancy  Lord  Avonleigh  would  care  about  it." 

"Nor  I.  But  his  son  is  otherwise.  We  shall  see!"  And 
quite  suddenly  Karl  wished  he  had  risked  offending  Van  and 
kept  clear  of  the  whole  thing  .  .  . 

Towards  the  end  of  October  Lord  Avonleigh  and  Derek  left 
England  with  no  premonition  that  they  had  actually  seen  the 
last  of  their  prosperous,  peaceful,  dangerously  casual  coun- 


UNTIL  THE  HARVEST  127 

try,  as  they  had  known  and  loved  her  all  the  years  of  their  life. 
And  Lord  Avonleigh,  stately  and  comfortably  conveyed  on  a 
vast  P.  &  O.  Liner,  had  no  inkling  that  his  son  was  lodged  in 
the  hold  of  a  tramp  steamer,  with  three  hundred  men  of  all 
grades  and  types  jammed  together  like  herrings  in  a  barrel. 
In  this  drastic  fashion  Derek  had  taken  the  plunge;  and  in  this 
fashion  he  set  out  —  resolute  rather  than  hopeful  —  upon  the 
six  weeks'  voyage  to  the  other  end  of  the  world. 


END  OF   BOOK  II 


BOOK   III 
INTO  THE  DEEP 


BOOK  III 
INTO  THE  DEEP 

CHAPTER  I 

Here  is  the  land,  shaggy  with  wood, 
With  its  old  valley,  mound  and  flood, 
They  called  me  'tlieirs,'  who  so  controlled  me. 
How  am  I  theirs,  if  tliey  cannot  hold  me  ? 
But  I  hold  them. 

EMERSON 

"SHE'LL  topple  the  wrong  way,  man.     She  won't  fall  true." 

"  She  will  —  damn  you ! " 

"She  won't,  the  way  you've  notched  her." 

"She's  notched  true  and  she'll  fall  true.  You  keep  your 
blank  mouth  shut  and  mind  your  own  business." 

"It's  the  whole  camp's  business  if  a  tree  that  size  topples  the 
wrong  way." 

The  two  men  stood  beside  the  trunk  of  a  mighty  Douglas  fir 
that  lifted  its  head  a  clear  hundred  and  twenty  feet  into  the 
blue  —  a  peer  even  among  its  compeers  that  thronged  the  belt 
of  forest  behind  them.  Before  them  the  main  clearing  of  Num 
ber  One  Camp  was  splashed  with  noonday  sun  and  shadow 
resonant  with  the  clank  of  chain  cables,  the  shriek  of  donkey 
engines  and  the  noise  of  labouring  men.  Lumberjacks  swarmed 
like  ants  over  the  bodies  of  fallen  giants  that  only  yesterday 
had  stood  as  proudly  erect  as  the  living  fir  now  marked  for 
death.  It  was  the  accuracy  of  that  notch  that  would  enable 
the  sawyers  to  'throw'  their  tree:  and  it  was  Derek  Blunt,  in 
coarse  shirt  and  copper-riveted  dungarees,  who  stood  there 
arguing  the  point.  His  lean  brown  face  was  no  longer  the  face 
of  a  boy.  The  bone  formations  stood  out  more  strongly.  His 
skin  was  tanned  by  eighteen  months  of  exposure  to  sun  and 


i3 2  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

wind  on  the  plains  of  Australia  and  in  the  lumber  camps  of 
British  Columbia.  His  unbuttoned  shirt  revealed  the  lighter 
tint  of  his  chest,  and  his  weather-beaten  felt  hat  was  tilted  at  a 
rakish  angle.  Caulked  boots  and  a  seven-foot  saw  completed 
the  equipment  of  his  trade.  In  that  rough  gear  he  looked 
every  inch  a  woodsman.  Health  and  confidence  radiated  from 
him;  the  unassuming  confidence  of  a  man  who,  by  sheer  energy 
and  zeal,  has  attained  to  a  certain  mastery  of  his  craft. 

It  was  precisely  that  note  of  assurance  which  had  annoyed 
Hal  Symes,  the  'under-cutter,'  who  stood  scowling  down  at 
him  from  a  steel-shod  spring-board  fixed  into  the  bark  of  the 
tree.  He  was  a  loosely  made  man,  with  bleached  fair  hair, 
pale  eyes,  and  a  mathematician's  brow  that  seemed  oddly  un 
related  to  the  rest  of  his  face.  The  trail  of  the  waster,  the 
easy-going  sensualist,  was  over  it  all,  from  the  heavy  lids  to  the 
slack  mouth  and  chin.  Yet  there  were  unmistakable  marks  of 
breeding  about  his  ungloved  hands,  and  in  the  English  cadence 
of  his  voice.  Years  ago,  in  another  life,  Harold  Symmonds 
had  been  a  well-known  figure  in  the  little  world  of  Cambridge. 
Mathematical  dons  had  expected  great  things  of  him.  The 
force  latent  in  his  forehead  and  the  weakness  latent  elsewhere 
had  contended  for  his  soul.  And  the  weaker  elements  had 
prevailed  — 

By  this  time  he  was  a  deplorably  well-known  figure  in  the 
casual  logging  world  of  British  Columbia.  His  well-developed 
muscles  ensured  him  a  fair  sufficiency  of  dollars.  The  dollars 
ensured  him  a  sufficiency  of  drinks  and  women;  and  presum 
ably  it  sufficed. 

Something  of  all  this  Derek  had  gathered  from  him  at  odd 
times,  when  whiskey  unloosed  his  tongue,  or  jealousy  prompted 
an  attitude  of  '  I'm-as-good-as-you-are,  anyway!'  towards  the 
younger  man,  whose  descent  into  the  lumber  world  had  no  ap 
parent  connection  with  women,  who  drank  moderately,  was 
respected  by  the  boys,  and  patently  favoured  by  'Maggots,' 
the  camp  boss.  There  was  also  Mrs.  'Maggots'  and  pretty 
Lois  Aymes  down  at  Beulah  Ranch  — 

Dislike,  bred  of  jealousy,  lurked  behind  the  scowl  with  which 


INTO  THE  DEEP  133 

Symes  leaned  over  and  once  more  tested  his  notch,  placing  his 
double  axe  in  it  and  looking  along  the  handle,  as  the  'fallers' 
came  swinging  up  with  their  flexible  long  blade. 

Picked  men,  these,  earning  anything  from  eight  to  ten  dollars 
a  day.  One  was  a  big  blond  Swede;  the  other  a  typical  Ca 
nadian,  straight-run,  clean-cut,  his  honesty  tempered  with 
shrewdness  if  a  business  deal  were  in  the  wind. 

"My!  But  she's  a  beauty!"  he  remarked,  eyeing  his  victim 
with  critical  appreciation ;  and  proceeded  to  cut  a  wedge  for  his 
spring-board  four  feet  above  the  ground.  The  Swede  followed 
suit;  and  mounted  on  these,  the  men  set  to  in  earnest,  working 
towards  the  notch;  the  slim  planks  springing  in  unison  with  the 
rhythmic  motion  of  their  arms. 

Swiftly,  remorselessly,  that  strip  of  steel  ate  its  way  into  the 
heart  of  the  tree,  while  Derek  stood  watching;  hoping  he  was 
mistaken  about  the  notch  .  .  . 

Standing  well  away  from  the  majestic  creature  —  so  immense, 
so  defenceless  against  two  pairs  of  skilled  hands  —  he  looked 
steadily  upward.  A  small  breeze  tossed  the  higher  branches, 
and  on  one  of  them  sat  a  chipmunk  —  a  fair  squirrel  —  nib 
bling  a  cone.  When  the  singing  note  of  the  saw  changed  its 
tone,  the  men  paused;  and  the  Canadian  squirted  oil  along  the 
blade.  Then  to  it  again,  till  the  moment  came  to  'wedge  her' 
lest  the  weight  of  the  trunk  damage  the  delicate,  remorseless, 
instrument  of  death. 

Gradually  the  tasselled  head  leaned  sideways.  From  the  depths 
a  hundred  feet  below  came  the  first  suspicion  of  a  crack  and  a 
warning  shout  from  the  sawyers:  "She's  moving!  —  Timber! " 

The  chipmiihk,  still  nibbling,  paid  no  heed. 

Another  crack:  a  report  like  a  small  cannon.  Then  the 
anguished  sound  of  a  mighty  rending,  of  boughs  wrenched  from 
living  trees,  as  then:  stricken  fellow  crashed  through  them,  with 
ever  increasing  speed  .  .  . 

And  suddenly  the  whole  clearing  was  alive  with  shouts  and 
cries  — 

Derek  had  not  been  mistaken,  She  was  falling  the  wrong 
way  — 


134  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Lumberjacks  and  Chinamen  scurried  out  of  the  danger  zone; 
the  sawyers  sprang  backwards,  swearing  lustily;  and  the  shriek 
of  escaping  steam  was  mingled  with  the  scream  of  shattered 
branches,  as  the  fir  came  smashing  to  earth  with  a  thud  that 
seemed  to  shake  the  very  hills. 

Nothing  more  considerable  than  a  shack  lay  in  the  line  of 
its  fall;  and  that  shack  was  flattened  like  a  house  of  cards. 
One  out-flung  branch  damaged  a  donkey  engine;  another 
stunned  a  Chinaman ;  a  third  caught  the  Canadian  sawyer  and 
broke  his  left  arm. 

"Where's  the  blank-blank  skunk  that  notched  her?"  he 
demanded  fiercely  of  no  one  in  particular.  But  Symes  was  not 
to  be  seen. 

"Made  tracks  while  his  shoes  was  good!"  opined  Mick,  the 
sawyer's  brother,  who  was  rendering  first  aid.  "Gee- whiz!  If 
I'd  'a'  caught  him!" 

Meantime  the  camp  had  recovered  itself;  and  the  men  were 
at  work  on  their  trophy  —  'limbers'  lopping  off  the  branches, 
'buckers'  sawing  the  trunk,  with  'snipers'  on  their  heels  to 
round  off  jagged  ends. 

Derek  was  among  the  'buckers,'  plying  his  saw  that  no  longer 
engaged  in  gymnastics  on  its  own  account,  as  in  the  early  days 
of  their  acquaintance.  It  was  hot  work  and  hard  work,  and  it 
satisfied  certain  primitive  instincts  that  are  scotched,  but  rarely 
killed,  by  the  insidious  process  of  civilization. 

At  last  that  which  had  once  been  a  majestic  Douglas  fir  lay 
stripped  in  the  sunlight;  reduced  to  mere  logs  ready  for  the 
powerful  machinery  of  hooks  and  steel  cable  to  work  their  will. 

At  a  signal  from  the  hook  tender,  the  'donkey'  whistled, 
and  the  cable  it  controlled  moved  on,  dragging  the  main  log, 
with  insolent  ease,  through  a  wilderness  of  fern  and  scrub, 
ploughing  deep  furrows  and  landing  its  prisoner  —  bruised  and 
battered  —  on  the  loaded  trolley.  An  answering  whistle 
heralded  the  appearance  of  a  small  railway  engine;  and  the  long 
black  line  of  freight  slid  down  the  grade  bound  for  a  lower  reach 
of  the  mountain  river  that  would  float  its  logs  to  the  sawmills 
of  Abe  Callander  in  Red  Cedar  Valley. 


INTO  THE  DEEP  135 

As  the  last  truck  vanished,  the  cook-house  gong  caused  a 
general  stampede  of  that  mixed  rough  and  tumble  of  human 
fragments  —  strapping  Canadians  and  Swedes,  wiry  Americans 
and  Italians,  English,  Irish,  and  Scotch.  There  were  men  of 
education,  men  of  character,  and  men  devoid  of  both.  But 
the  bulk  were  of  true  lumberjack  breed  —  simple  and  kindly 
as  children  when  sober,  mere  animals  when  they  were  drunk. 

The  cook-house,  where  they  congregated,  had  a  homelike  air, 
with  its  laden  bench-flanked  tables  and  glowing  stove  at  the  far 
end;  its  piles  of  chopped  wood  breast  high  along  the  walls; 
shelves  stacked  with  bright-coloured  canned  stuffs  and  slabs  of 
bacon  hanging  from  the  roof. 

Derek  seated  himself  between  a  hard-bitten  Cockney  and 
Dan  Sayers,  the  'winged'  Canadian,  who  still  desired  the  blood 
of  Symes. 

"The  gopher  darsn't  show  his  face  in  here,"  the  injured  giant 
remarked  with  drawling  emphasis.  "Fear  he'd  get  a  fit  of 
indigestion  through  swallowin'  half  his  teeth.  If  the  boss  don't 
fire  him  good  an*  quick  this  time,  I'll  say  the  word  meself  — 
an'  quit.  He'd  oughter  bin  fired  months  ago.  But  he's  got  the 
soft  side  of  the  missus:  an'  'Maggots'  ain't  boss  in  his  own 
shack.  Lend  a  fork,  Deny,  while  I  chop  this  stuff." 

Derek  lent  a  fork  and  briefly  expressed  his  sympathy:  then 
he  fell  to  upon  his  own  share  with  a  will.  He  had  learnt,  by 
now,  to  bolt  his  dinner  with  the  best  of  them  and  to  waste  no 
time  in  talk  by  the  way. 

When  the  stoking  process  was  over,  he  filled  a  pipe  and 
strolled  off  through  a  belt  of  forest  to  a  lesser  clearing,  where 
the  wide  valley  and  towrering  peaks  beyond  came  suddenly  into 
view.  Here  two  log  cabins,  partly  scooped  out  of  the  hillside, 
represented  Bill  Margett's  office  and  private  shack,  where  his 
wife  and  seven-year-old  son  spent  some  two  months  every 
summer  —  entirely  for  his  benefit. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  held  that  a  woman  was  quite  out  of 
place  in  a  logging  camp;  but  Mrs.  Margett's  wifely  devotion 
was  not  to  be  denied.  Indeed,  the  good  fellow  had  never  yet 
found  it  in  his  heart  to  deny  her  anything. 


136  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

She  was  a  townswoman  by  birth  and  temperament  and  she 
hailed  from  the  Old  Country.  She  frankly  favoured  Symes, 
the  degraded  gentleman ;  and  had  also  shown  signs  of  favouring 
Derek,  which  annoyed  him  considerably,  and,  on  occasion, 
provoked  the  shameless  Symes  to  open  jealousy.  Matters 
were  further  complicated  by  the  fact  that  Derek  respected 
Margett  and  was  adored  by  his  small  son;  while  he  heartily 
disliked  the  woman,  whose  chief  pleasure  in  life  seemed  uncon 
nected  with  either.  But  Mrs.  Margett  was  masterful  and  in 
sensitive,  and  knew  very  well  how  to  play  on  the  passions  of 
men.  It  was  her  chief  talent  and  she  was  not  the  woman  to  let 
it  rust  unused.  To-day  she  had  bidden  him  come  and  receive 
a  list  of  commissions  he  was  to  carry  out  at  Nealston ;  as  he  had 
a  few  days'  leave  of  absence,  to  do  business  for  'Maggots,'  in 
that  flourishing  lake-side  town. 

Derek  himself  had  no  shadow  of  doubt  where  that  gentleman 
had  sought  shelter  from  the  wrath  of  the  camp:  and  there  he 
found  him,  thoroughly  at  ease,  smoking  and  sipping  lime  cordial, 
in  'MaggotsV  raw-hide  armchair;  Mrs.  Margett,  also  sipping 
and  smoking,  at  his  elbow. 

As  she  rose  to  greet  Derek,  he  hated  himself  for  noticing 
that  the  two  chairs  were  suspiciously  close  together.  She  was 
a  woman  of  good  carriage  and  seductive  curves,  who  would 
presently  be  stout;  of  the  type  favoured  in  second-rate  melo 
drama.  Her  red  blouse  effectively  illumined  her;  and  the  hide 
armchairs  were  stacked  with  red  cushions  that  arrived  with 
her  and  vanished  when  she  left  the  camp. 

"At  last!"  she  said  with  a  clinging  pressure  of  Derek's  hand. 
"I  thought,  like  as  not,  you'd  forgotten  everything  but  your 
fling  in  town  and  your  Sunday  on  Beulah  Ranch!" 

"No  fear  I'd  forget,"  Derek  answered  in  his  most  matter-of- 
fact  voice,  ignoring  the  playful  thrust.  "Have  you  got  the 
list  ready?" 

"Well  —  thereabouts.  What's  the  almighty  hurry?  Sit 
right  down  and  have  a  smoke." 

Derek  glanced  at  Symes,  who  was  aimlessly  turning  the  pages 
of  a  magazine. 


INTO  THE  DEEP  137 

"Thanks.  I  think  I  won't,"  he  said  politely.  "It'll  take  all 
my  time  to  get  down  to  Macrae's  before  sunset  — " 

"And  —  you'd  sooner  miss  an  hour  here  than  an  hour 
there — ?"  She  challenged  him,  with  a  look  so  boldly  significant 
that  it  drew  the  blood  to  his  face;  and  at  sight  of  it  she  laughed 
softly.  "Poor  old  boy!  Is  it  as  bad  as  all  that?  Queer  the 
way  you  men  go  down  like  ninepins  before  a  clinging  chit  of  a 
girl  with  hair  that  colour.  But  the  lucky  devil  who  gets  her 
will  find  it  a  danger  signal  — " 

"Honour  bright,  I  don't  know  what  you're  driving  at," 
Derek  broke  in  desperately.  "The  Macraes  have  been  mighty 
good  to  me,  and  I  don't  want  to  put  them  out  by  turning  up 
late.  That's  all  there  is  to  it.  As  for  Miss  Aymes  and  the 
colour  of  her  hair,  it's  no  concern  of  mine." 

At  this  point  Symes,  who  had  recovered  his  composure,  was 
moved  to  reassert  himself. 

"Miss  Aymes!"  he  mimicked  with  a  throaty  chuckle.  "Ain't 
we  the  pink  of  propriety!  I  thought  she  mostly  went  by  the 
name  of  Lois  among  her  pals. " 

Derek,  without  looking  round,  put  out  a  hand  for  his  in 
structions. 

"If  you'll  give  me  that  list  I'll  be  going  on  now,"  he  said, 
frankly  ignoring  her  hint  that  it  was  incomplete. 

With  an  odd  smile  she  took  the  slip  of  paper  from  her  daven 
port  —  the  only  piece  of  genuine  furniture  in  the  room. 

"There's  just  a  thing  or  two  wants  explaining,  if  your  patience 
can  stick  it  five  minutes  longer!"  she  said.  Then,  half  seating 
herself  on  a  corner  of  the  table,  she  leaned  so  close  to  him  that 
her  arm  pressed  against  his  shoulder,  and  proceeded  to  harass 
him  with  a  string  of  details,  flashing  a  glance  at  him,  between 
whiles,  from  under  her  lids.  Detesting  her,  yet  uncomfortably 
aware  of  her,  he  was  thankful  when  the  ordeal  ended:  so,  in  his 
own  fashion,  was  Symes. 

Derek,  free  at  last,  glanced  at  him;  hesitated  a  moment;  — 
then  the  instinct  of  the  gentleman  prevailed.  "Anything  I  can 
do  for  you,"  he  asked,  "in  a  small  way?" 

Symes  stared  hard  at  him  and  said  slowly:  "We-ell,  you  can 


138  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

give  my  love  to  'the  girls'  up  Vere  Street.  And  give  Miss  Lois 
an  extra  kiss  or  two  on  my  account  —  if  she  hasn't  quite  for 
gotten  yours  truly.  She  takes  to  kisses,  that  girl,  like  a  duck  to 
water." 

It  did  not  occur  to  Derek  that  the  man  was  paying  Mrs. 
Margett  back  in  kind:  and  his  straight  look  had  a  gleam  in  it 
that  recalled  his  father. 

"You  can  do  your  own  commissions  in  that  line  —  no  man 
better,"  he  said  with  quiet  scorn.  "S'long  Mrs.  Margett. 
Tell  the  boss  I'll  be  back  on  time." 

And  so  he  made  good  his  escape  without  a  repetition  of  her 
intimate  handclasp  —  the  sole  satisfaction  he  gleaned  from  that 
unpleasant  quarter  of  an  hour. 

On  the  threshold  young  Bill  charged  into  him  —  an  excitable 
slip  of  a  boy  with  his  father's  clear  Canadian  eyes. 

"Say,  Deny,  what  you  running  away  for?" 

"Business,  old  chap.     I'm  off  down  to  the  Lake." 

"Take  me  with  you  —  do" 

"Not  this  time.  Some  day  —  perhaps,  if  your  dad  would 
trust  me." 

"  'Course  he  would;  you  ask  him." 

They  were  free  of  the  shack  now,  crossing  the  open;  Bill 
trotting  beside  Derek,  clutching  his  hand.  Children  were  never 
shy  with  him  nor  he  with  them.  He  rarely  caressed  them  or 
played  the  fool  with  them:  but  there  were  hidden  currents  of 
understanding  that  made  their  companionship  an  effortless 
joy.  Some  quality  in  them,  which  it  never  occurred  to  him  to 
analyze,  stirred  the  unplumbed  depths  of  his  manhood:  and  it 
was  partly  because  Lois  Aymes  seemed  to  him,  still,  more  child 
than  woman,  that  the  desire  had  flamed  in  him  to  flatten  the 
face  of  Hal  Symes  for  linking  her,  by  indirect  implication,  with 
the  girls  up  Vere  Street. 

Bill's  company,  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour  with  those 
two,  was  like  a  draught  of  spring  water  after  a  glass  of  cheap 
liqueur. 

When  they  reached  the  belt  of  trees  through  which  he  had 
come,  Derek  stopped  and  bade  the  boy  run  back  again. 


INTO  THE  DEEP  139 

"Say!  You  will  ask  my  dad?  Wish-you-may-die  if  you 
don't!" 

" Wish-I-may-die  if  I  don't!"  Derek  assured  him  gravely. 
"And  I'll  bring  you  a  surprise  parcel  on  Tuesday.  But  don't 
you  lie  awake  guessing!" 

The  boy  gave  his  hand  a  convulsive  squeeze.  "My!  Deny, 
I  do  love  you.  I'll  be  never  so  good  till  Tuesday."  By  way  of 
guarantee  he  scampered  across  the  clearing,  turned  and  fluttered 
a  hand,  then  vanished  round  the  corner  of  the  hut. 

Derek,  eager  to  be  off,  went  straight  to  the  'bunk-house,' 
a  long  wooden  building  with  '  beds '  for  forty  men.  These  were 
made  on  the  ground,  and  covered  with  straw;  slender  logs  divid 
ing  each  from  each.  At  the  head  end  of  Derek's  bunk  lay  a 
canvas  bag,  his  only  item  of  luggage.  It  contained  spare  un 
derclothing,  a  few  books  and  home  photographs,  two  pairs  of 
flannels,  and  the  beloved,  identical  Norfolk  coat  in  which  he 
had  tramped  through  the  Tyrol  two  summers  ago. 

Swiftly  he  exchanged  his  logging  kit  for  his  own  garments; 
but  he  stuck  to  the  faded  felt  hat  with  the  upturned  brim.  He 
was  fond  of  it  and  possessed  no  other.  Then  he  went  off  to 
saddle  his  cayuse,  a  graceful  sorrel,  with  irregular  white  patches 
on  his  flanks  and  over  one  eye.  He  was  a  nervous,  excitable 
creature,  liable  to  buck  in  elated  moods,  and  what  he  didn't 
know  about  trails  wasn't  worth  knowing.  Derek  had  christened 
him  'Kitts'  in  memory  of  his  own  old  friend  at  home.  He 
loved  him  dearly,  and  a  close  intimacy  had  been  established 
between  them.  Even  in  his  wickedest  moods  Derek  could 
gentle  him  back  to  good  behaviour;  and  to-day  he  was  in  high 
fettle.  Saddling  and  mounting  him  was  a  lively  proceeding; 
then,  with  a  final  flirt  of  his  heels,  he  crossed  the  open  in  a  series 
of  bounds,  and  settled  down  to  an  easy  canter  as  they  passed 
out  of  the  strong  sunlight  into  the  shadowy  green  silences  of 
the  forest. 


CHAPTER  II 

To  lose  myself 

Among  the  common  creatures  of  the  world; 
To  draw  some  gain  from  having  been  a  man; 
Neither  to  hope,  nor  fear,  —  to  Hue,  at  length! 

BROWNING 

DEREK  had  a  long  ride  ahead  of  him,  through  endless  aisles 
of  virgin  forest,  to  the  point  at  which  a  little  mountain  railway 
linked  the  mining  camp  at  Windyridge,  with  the  service  of 
steamers  on  the  Lake;  but  for  him  the  journey  itself  was  one  of 
the  chief  virtues  of  his  holiday.  The  immensity  of  these  moun 
tain  forests,  their  'shadowed  leagues  of  slumbering  sound,'  laid 
a  spell  upon  him;  and  a  few  hours  of  unbroken  solitude  refreshed 
his  spirit  like  manna  from  Heaven.  He  was  not  yet  inured  to 
the  common  trials  of  working  and  eating  and  sleeping  in  a  herd: 
and  in  Abe  Callander's  outfit  there  was  the  usual  sprinkling  of 
rough  characters.  Taken  all  round,  the  'boys'  were  thorough 
good  fellows  within  their  limits;  and  if  whiskey  was  their  bane, 
they  were  singularly  free  from  the  meaner  vices  of  town-bred 
men.  Among  the  better  sort  Derek  had  made  a  few  staunch 
friends:  but  it  was  friendship  without  intimacy;  and  the  real 
hidden  Derek  still  remained  incurably  alone. 

For  the  most  part,  he  lived  too  vigorously  to  be  aware  of  it, 
except  when  the  mood  was  on  him;  and  to-day  it  was  on  him 
acutely,  intensified  by  the  little  scene  in  the  shack.  He  had 
been  looking  forward  quite  simply  and  naturally  to  his  Sunday 
at  Beulah  Ranch  —  the  children,  the  blunt  kindliness  of  Mrs. 
Macrae,  Lois  Aymes,  arrd  her  pretty  caressing  ways.  And 
those  two,  with  their  tainted  minds,  had  besmeared  everything. 

But  very  soon  the  brooding  silence  of  the  forest  closed  over 
him  like  folded  wings;  and  he  surrendered  himself  to  the  spell. 

It  was  the  brief,  perfect  moment  of  early  summer  when  the 


INTO  THE  DEEP  141 

snow-slides  and  the  slush  are  over  and  the  tyranny  of  black  fly 
and  mosquitoes  is  not  yet.  New  life  was  quickening  under  the 
dankest  sods,  stirring  in  every  leaf  and  blade.  The  very  pines 
and  cedars  seemed  to  be  secretly  awake  and  aware.  Small 
unseen  things  rustled  in  the  undergrowth.  Chipmunks  flitted 
through  the  branches  overhead.  Their  ceaseless  chirruping 
flickered,  like  a  light,  over  unplumbed  depths.  But  never  a 
note  of  bird  music,  though  one  rode  on,  world  without  end. 
And  to  Derek's  English  mind,  a  wood  without  song-birds 
seemed  an  anomaly  as  strange  and  sad  as  a  night  without 
stars. 

At  this  hour,  in  all  the  woods  of  Avonleigh,  in  every  coppice 
and  shrubbery,  the  birds  of  Home  were  singing  their  hearts  out 
for  joy  that  they  were  made.  And  Derek's  heart  hungered  to 
hear  them;  to  see  the  gleam  of  young  leaves  on  his  beloved 
beeches,  the  blaze  of  daffodils  against  the  grey  old  house;  to 
sniff  the  faint  clean  scent  of  wallflowers  and  newmown  grass. 
On  the  whole  he  succeeded  in  locking  the  door  against  memory. 
But  to-day  the  unsleeping  thing  caught  him  unawares;  and 
there  surged  through  him  such  a  wave  of  Home  longing  as  he 
had  not  experienced  since  his  first  weeks  in  camp. 

Though  the  splendours  and  sublimities  of  Canada  dazzled 
his  eyes  and  exalted  his  spirit,  they  were  as  dust  in  the  balance 
beside  that  far-off  insignificant  island  that  was  Home.  Here 
was  no  sense  of  intimacy,  no  mist-blurred  horizons.  Here  the 
heavens  seemed  higher,  the  depths  deeper,  the  very  mountains, 
in  their  magnificence,  a  shade  too  dominant,  too  sharply  defined. 

And  the  face  of  the  land  was  mirrored  in  the  soul  of  its  people. 
Even  while  he  delighted  in  their  simplicity,  shrewdness,  and  un 
tiring  vigour,  he  found  their  characters,  like  their  scenery,  lack 
ing  in  atmosphere.  Bone  of  England's  bone  and  flesh  of  her 
flesh,  they  were  yet  so  distinctly  un-English  that  looking  into 
their  minds  gave  him  sometimes  an  odd  sense  of  seeing  his  own 
reversed,  like  handwriting  in  a  mirror.  Their  very  love  of 
country  was  a  case  in  point.  Derek,  like  most  Englishmen, 
loved  England  for  what  she  was.  His  Canadian  friends,  he 
found,  loved  Canada  for  what  they  themselves  were  making  of 


142  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

her  every  day  of  their  lives.  On  his  side,  the  attitude  of  a  son 
to  a  mother;  on  theirs,  rather  that  of  a  mother  watching  and 
shaping  the  growth  of  her  son.  And  again,  he  had  discovered 
that  his  deep-seated  love  of  Nature  must  be  concealed  like  a 
vice  if  he  wished  to  retain  the  respect  of  these  human  dynamos, 
who  saw  nothing  to  marvel  at  in  the  ghostly  sheen  of  moonlight 
on  leagues  of  snow-covered  pines  or  the  most  arresting  conjunc 
tion  of  mountain,  forest,  and  lake.  They  seemed  about  as 
aware  of  it  all  as  a  Londoner  is  aware  of  his  own  familiar  glories. 
Their  eyes  beheld  the  visible  garment  of  God,  but  their  minds 
were  intent  on  the  absorbing  business  of  remodelling  it  to  fit 
the  needs  of  man.  To  'fuss  round'  after  scenery  was  the  mark 
of  the  tripper,  the  tenderfoot,  the  weak-kneed  sentimentalist. 
The  true  son  of  Canada  demanded  naked  realities,  with  an  in 
sistence  that  tempted  Derek,  at  times,  to  fling  down  the  chal 
lenge:  "  What,  after  all,  are  the  realities?  The  everlasting  hills 
or  your  mushroom  mining  camp,  that  to-day  is  and  to-morrow 
is  scorched  into  ashes  by  the  breath  of  a  forest  fire?" 

But  so  far  he  had  bridled  his  tongue;  and  his  comrades  re 
spected  him  accordingly. 

To-day,  with  sights  and  sounds  of  England  tugging  at  his 
heart,  he  felt  suddenly,  acutely  out  of  tune  with  it  all;  suddenly, 
acutely  homesick  for  the  leisured,  casual  spirit  of  England,  for 
her  low  hills  and  blue  distances;  for  Van's  chaff  and  a  talk  with 
his  father  and  a  sight  of  his  mother's  face;  for  clean  linen  and  a 
good  dinner  and  all  the  minor  comforts  of  home  that  he  had 
valued  so  little  when  they  were  a  matter  of  course  — 

The  real  trouble,  when  these  moods  assailed  him,  was  the 
knowledge  that  he  had  only  to  wire  to  his  father,  and  in  a  few 
weeks  he  could  be  with  him,  seeing  a  new  country,  talking  to  cul 
tivated  men  and  women,  enjoying  the  lawful  pleasures  that  were 
his  by  right  of  birth.  The  way  was  open.  No  hindrance,  save  his 
own  obstinate  resolve  to  go  through  with  it,  even  against  odds. 

And  —  on  the  whole  —  he  had  kept  his  own  counsel.  To  his 
people  he  had  vouchsafed  little  beyond  reassuring  generalities. 
Mark  and  Jack  had  been  favoured  with  fuller  information ;  but, 
even  so,  the  half  was  not  told  them.  About  the  greater  part  of 


INTO  THE  DEEP  143 

that  nightmare  voyage  in  the  hold  they  had  heard  nothing,  nor 
ever  would. 

In  all  his  sheltered  days,  he  had  not  dreamed  what  misery, 
and  worse,  a  man  of  gentle  birth  and  clean  instincts  could  en 
dure  simply  from  incessant  physical  contact  with  a  mixed 
crowd  of  his  own  kind:  and  the  crowd  packed  into  the  hold  of 
that  tramp  steamer  had  been  largely  recruited  from  the  scum 
of  great  cities.  There  were  scores,  also,  of  half-educated  mal 
contents,  with  the  virus  of  class  hatred  in  their  veins;  and  to 
these  his  mere  gentlemanhood  had  been  his  worst  offence.  His 
refinement  of  speech,  his  natural  reserves,  his  willingness  to 
help  and  serve  —  the  hall-mark  of  the  aristocrat  —  had  all  been 
so  many  targets  for  their  unreasoning  animosity  and  scorn.  It 
was  the  kind  of  thing  he  would  have  refused  to  believe  from 
another  man's  lips;  and  three  weeks  of  it  had  brought  him  near 
the  end  of  his  tether. 

He  remembered,  with  shame,  a  becalmed  evening  in  the 
Indian  Ocean;  a  three-quarter  moon  beginning  to  take  colour; 
a  flaming  afterglow  in  the  west  that  turned  the  waters  to  wine; 
and,  in  the  stern,  among  coils  of  rope,  a  lonely,  disillusioned 
Derek,  so  bitterly  at  odds  with  everything  that,  when  the  time 
came  to  leave  the  vastness  and  the  silence  and  the  clean  breath 
of  the  sea  for  the  foul  atmosphere  of  the  hold  he  had  felt  like 
slipping  overboard  simply  to  get  away  from  it  all  and  taking 
his  chance  of  a  rescue  before  his  strength  gave  out. 

It  was  a  mere  desperate  impulse,  gone  in  a  flash ;  but  it  pulled 
him  up  with  a  round  turn;  and  it  marked  a  point  from  which 
matters  began  to  improve. 

There  are  good  men  in  every  crowd ;  and  several  of  these  he 
had  discovered,  when  he  settled  into  his  stride;  —  men  whose 
range  of  reading  surprised  him;  who  could  think  and  express 
their  thoughts  more  forcibly  than  the  average  product  of  polite 
education.  From  these  he  had  learned  much  about  his  own 
country  and  his  own  class,  that  enabled  him  to  see  both  from  a 
fresh  angle  of  vision;  and  with  one  of  them  he  had  struck  up  a 
rough-and-ready  friendship  that  considerably  enlivened  the  first 
dreary  spell  of  job-hunting  ashore. 


144  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Dan  Maguire  was  as  Irish  as  his  name;  a  born  adventurer, 
of  unquenchable  spirit,  who  at  one  moment  would  confound 
Derek  for  the  fool  he  was  to  have  been  born  an  Englishman, 
and  the  next  —  with  true  Emerald  logic  —  belaud  him  for  the 
very  qualities  he  derived  from  that  prenatal  error.  But  for 
Maguire,  those  first  days  in  Adelaide  —  chiefly  spent  in  dis 
covering  the  fraudulence  of  agents  and  their  own  entire  super 
fluity  —  would  have  been  a  hopelessly  grey  and  sordid  memory. 
As  it  was,  they  had  contrived  to  strike  flashes  of  humour  out 
of  the  very  stones  Fate  offered  them  for  bread;  and  Maguire, 
with  'Sursum  Caudas!'  for  his  war  cry,  was  unquenchable. 

"Let's  be  removing  our  patronage  from  this  Queen  of  Cities," 
said  he,  when  Adelaide  had  metaphorically  spurned  them  for 
the  space  of  a  week,  "and  give  the  bally  farmers  a  chance." 

The  move  up-country  brought  a  change  in  their  run  of  luck. 
It  was  high  summer;  the  farmers  welcomed  extra  help;  and  for 
the  next  three  months  Derek  had  his  first  taste  of  real  manual 
labour;  carting,  loading,  and  doing  odd  jobs  about  the  farm. 

Though  his  breeding  went  for  nothing  in  this,  the  most  demo 
cratic  of  all  British  Dominions,  the  qualities  arising  from  it  went 
for  a  good  deal.  A  British  'tenderfoot,'  who  seemed  to  recog 
nize  that  he  had  everything  to  learn,  was  a  sufficiently  rare  bird 
to  impress  even  an  Australian  farmer:  and  about  this  time,  a 
thought  had  come  to  him  that  gave  a  new  significance  to  his 
round  of  drudgery.  If  he  could  glean  a  little  practical  knowl 
edge  of  up-to-date  farming,  his  father  might  be  induced  to  put 
him  in  charge  of  Trevanyon ;  and  he  would  like  nothing  better  on 
earth.  Independence,  personal  responsibility  and  freedom  from 
routine  were,  for  him,  the  ideal  elements  in  work  and  life:  and 
the  mere  chance  of  achieving  them  was  worth  a  passing  sacrifice 
of  all  three.  So  —  tired  but  resolute  —  he  had  bowed  his  back 
to  weeks  of  monotonous  and  uncongenial  toil  — 

Not  so  Maguire  —  a  rolling  stone  by  taste  and  temperament. 

Early  in  the  New  Year,  he  grew  restless,  and  proceeded  to 
unsettle  Derek  with  alluring  second-hand  tales  of  bush-life  and 
the  gold-fields  out  West.  Derek,  though  sceptical,  was  eager 
enough  for  fresh  experiences,  for  the  dangers  and  uncertainties 


INTO  THE  DEEP  145 

that  test  a  man's  resources  and  his  wits.  In  vain  did  the  farmer 
confound  the  Irishman  for  a  liar  and  the  Englishman  for  a  fool. 
A  rise  in  wages  had  no  magnetic  attraction  for  men  in  the  hope 
ful  twenties  bitten  with  the  lure  of  the  unknown  — 

So  they  set  their  faces  westward;  and  in  a  raw  little  mining 
town  they  encountered  a  friendly  sandalwood  cutter,  whose 
gilded  yarns  lured  them  into  joining  him  for  a  spell.  Their 
needs  were  not  formidable  —  an  axe,  a  sleeping-blanket,  and  a 
gun;  stores  and  belongings  piled  on  a  handcart,  which  they 
must  draw  between  them.  With  these  they  set  out  to  work 
their  way  through  the  bush  to  a  certain  gold  claim,  where  — 
according  to  their  new  friend,  Foxy  Lee  —  a  man  could  pick  up 
a  fortune  as  'easy  as  winkinV 

Meantime  there  was  the  bush ;  a  vast  tableland  of  red  granite 
and  stunted  blue-leaved  mulgas;  each  one  so  like  its  fellow 
that  if  a  man  lost  his  bearings  he  was  helpless;  in  local  phrase, 
'bushed.' 

Through  this  eerie,  inviolate  region  —  that  had  neither  the 
bloom  of  youth  nor  the  maturity  of  age  —  they  tramped  un 
hurriedly,  cutting  sandalwood  by  day,  bivouacking  at  night 
under  stars  that  flashed  like  cut  steel.  It  was  a  solitary  trade. 
Each  man  went  off  alone,  with  his  axe  and  gun,  to  scour  a  cer 
tain  area,  cutting  all  he  could  find  and  dragging  it  to  a  central 
pile  for  collecting  later  on. 

Except  near  water-holes,  there  was  little  sign  of  Me.  The 
natives  were  practically  extinct.  Birds  were  few  and  strange, 
with  no  music  in  them  to  enliven  the  ghostly  silence.  It  was 
like  a  land  under  a  spell  —  timeless,  soundless,  changeless. 
The  very  bushes,  in  their  isolated  stillness,  seemed  listening 
for  some  whisper  of  release  from  the  wide,  indifferent  sky. 

The  strong,  subtle  charm  of  the  place  struck  some  secret 
chord  in  Derek's  soul.  Never  before  had  he  so  inly  felt  the  in 
trinsic  majesty  of  stillness;  yet  always,  behind  the  majesty  and 
the  charm,  he  was  aware  of  a  nameless  fear:  the  fear  that  lurks 
in  all  desert  lands;  that  shatters  the  comfortable  faith  of  the 
churches  and  either  drives  men  mad  or  opens  their  eyes  —  and 
behold,  they  see. 


146  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

There  were  bad  days  when  he  went  about  his  work  haunted 
by  a  horrid  undersense  of  Something  waiting  to  spring  out  of 
ambush  and  annihilate  him.  In  the  evenings,  when  they  talked 
and  smoked  and  cooked  their  simple  meal,  it  would  vanish 
outright,  only  to  reappear  next  morning.  He  had  said  no  word 
to  the  others;  and  in  time  he  discovered,  with  exquisite  relief, 
that  it  had  evaporated  like  an  evil  miasma.  But  the  eerie 
charm  remained.  The  spiritual  struggle  had  been  very  real, 
and  with  mastery  came  a  curious  sense  of  exaltation;  a  sense 
of  having,  indeed,  overridden  all  boundaries  and  escaped  out  of 
the  world  into  some  luminous  Beyond,  where  time  and  space 
and  human  limitations  were  not  — 

With  Maguire  it  was  very  much  otherwise.  He  clamoured 
for  the  noise  and  movement,  and  conviviality  of  herded  men: 
and  at  long  last  there  came  a  change  over  the  unchanging 
scene.  The  monotone  of  red  granite  was  broken  by  dykes  of 
schist  and  ironstone.  Trees  and  grass  reappeared.  Clouds 
rolled  up  out  of  the  south  and  rain  fell.  They  were  back  in  the 
normal  world  again:  and  before  very  long  they  descried,  afar 
off,  a  vision  of  tents  and  blazing  wood  fires  —  Bronker's  Claim, 
at  last! 

That  night  they  supped  and  slept  in  camp.  There  was  sing 
ing  and  laughter  and  lurid  profanity  that  brought  Derek  to 
earth  with  a  crash.  And  so  an  end  of  the  strangest  spiritual 
adventure  that  had  befallen  him  during  his  brief  Odyssey  in 
search  of  truth. 

In  the  unearthly  stillness  of  the  desert  he  had  caught  a  glimpse 
of  God's  reality;  in  the  clamour  of  life  and  work  on  Bronker's 
Claim  he  had  more  than  a  glimpse  of  man's  reality,  with  never 
a  film  of  varnish  to  gloss  its  uglier  aspects.  Two  shafts,  v/ith 
parallel  galleries  yielding  five  ounces  to  the  ton,  were  in  full 
swing:  and  Derek  spent  most  of  his  time  shovelling  broken  rock 
into  buckets;  his  ears  and  brain  maddened  by  the  eternal  click 
of  pick  or  hammer  on  stone.  In  the  evenings  there  were  con 
vivial  gatherings  round  the  camp-fires;  tales  of  miraculous 
'  finds ' ;  racy,  coarse,  interminable  talk  of  money  and  women  and 


INTO  THE  DEEP  147 

the  drink;  talk  from  which  a  man  could  extract  much  quaint 
and  varied  knowledge  of  human  nature  in  the  rough. 

But  the  work  itself  was  back-breaking  and  monotonous.  It 
lacked  the  one  redeeming  feature  of  farm  drudgery,  the  sense 
of  ministering  to  life:  and  it  did  not  take  more  than  a  week  or 
two  for  Maguire  to  be  seized  with  a  conviction  that  the  wealth 
of  Croesus  awaited  them  had  they  but  the  'spunk'  to  fling 
away  their  'ruddy  shovels'  and  go  prospecting  on  their  own. 
Derek  confessed  that  he  was  heartily  sick  of  his  shovel:  and 
Foxy  Lee  —  after  jeering  at  them  —  opined  that  he  had  best 
keep  an  eye  on  their  movements,  just  to  see  what  colour  of  fools 
they  made  of  themselves. 

So  they  left  camp,  with  their  friend  the  handcart,  and  wan 
dered  over  the  country,  tapping  likely  rocks,  'dollying'  samples; 
and,  when  evening  came,  hunting  rabbits  in  the  bush. 

Personally  Derek  was  convinced  nothing  would  come  of  it: 
but  the  adventure  of  the  thing  amused  him,  and  Maguire's  air- 
castles,  and  the  businesslike  intensity  of  Foxy  Lee,  who  had 
only  come  out  to  spy  on  their  folly. 

And  behold,  in  less  than  two  weeks,  the  incredible  had  come 
to  pass  — 

They  had  struck  a  vein  of  ore  in  one  of  the  lesser  dykes,  and 
had  heard,  with  unbelieving  ears,  Foxy's  solemn  declaration 
that  he  was  a  Dutchman  if  that  vein  didn't  yield  thirty  ounces 
to  the  ton. 

That  was  the  prelude,  merely.  In  less  than  no  time  their 
news  was  abroad;  a  fresh  camp  sprang  up;  shafts  were  sunk; 
gangs  of  rough,  hardened  workmen  poured  in  from  all  over  the 
district,  and  they  found  themselves  famous.  Later  on,  they 
might  find  themselves  rich.  It  began  to  look  like  a  big  thing; 
and  the  prevailing  excitement  swept  even  Derek  off  his  feet. 
He,  too,  ventured  to  build  air-castles;  to  dream  of  justifying 
himself  and  his  crazy  adventure  and  giving  practical  proof  of 
that  devotion  to  Avonleigh  that  lay,  like  a  hidden  jewel,  in  his 
heart;  —  inexpressible,  unexpressed. 

But  the  dream  dissolved  in  mist.  The  air-castles  fell  to 
earth  in  very  dusty  ruins.  Too  soon  their  vein  of  ore  showed 


148  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

signs  of  petering  out.  Excitement  had  reached  high-water 
mark;  and  the  downward  swing  of  the  pendulum  had  an  ill 
effect  on  the  rougher  element  in  camp.  Derek  had  never  heard 
so  much  foul  language  even  among  men  who  were  no  carpet- 
talkers  at  their  best,  and  it  sickened  him.  But  sheer  disgust 
of  the  whole  thing  failed  to  take  the  edge  off  his  own  keen  dis 
appointment  ;  and  his  mind  reacted  on  his  body,  that  now  showed 
signs  of  resenting  the  drastic  change  of  life  and  climate  and  food. 
He,  who  had  seldom  known  a  headache,  suffered  from  a  constant 
oppressive  ache  across  his  brows.  A  paralyzing  lassitude  hung 
upon  his  limbs  and  befogged  his  brain.  He  moved  like  a  sleep 
walker  through  a  nightmare  of  cursing,  brawling  men. 

From  this  unnatural  apathy  he  was  roused  by  the  discovery 
that  he  had  been  robbed  one  night  of  nearly  half  his  little  store  of 
notes  and  gold.  That  fired  his  temper  and  spurred  him  to  action. 

"I'm  off  out  of  this  hell-hole,  Maguire,"  he  said  next  morning 
after  announcing  his  loss.  "I've  had  enough  of  it  to  last  me 
a  lifetime.  Come  if  you  like.  If  not,  I'll  go  alone." 

"An'  where  will  ye  be  going,  in  the  divil's  name?"  asked  the 
amazed  Maguire,  wrho  had  so  far  taken  the  lead. 

"Anywhere  —  away  from  these  drunken  thieves.  The  coast 
for  choice.  Will  you  come?  " 

And  Maguire  —  after  consideration  —  decided  that  he  would. 
A  fat  roll  of  notes  was  burning  a  hole  in  his  pocket;  and  James 
town  laid  itself  out  for  the  benefit  of  men  in  that  enviable 
condition. 

So  to  Jamestown  they  returned,  striking  across  country  to 
the  nearest  railway. 

It  was  a  small,  prosperous  place,  harmless-looking  enough, 
with  its  shops,  hotels,  and  drinking  saloons  along  the  shore 
and  its  dwelling-houses  scattered  among  the  sand-dunes  behind. 
Yet  here,  in  a  few  weeks,  a  man  could  experience  enough  to 
shatter  any  lingering  faith  in  human  nature  that  he  might 
happen  to  possess. 

A  dead  weight  still  seemed  to  hang  on  Derek's  limbs  and 
brain.  For  the  moment  he  had  no  clear  aim  or  plan;  only  a 
passionate  longing  to  go  straight  back  to  the  clean,  decent  life 


INTO  THE  DEEP  149 

of  his  own  kind:  and  the  sight  of  the  sea,  that  should  have 
refreshed  him,  only  made  matters  worse.  Maguire,  it  must  be 
admitted,  found  him  anything  but  a  lively  companion  —  and 
Maguire  was  'out  for  a  spree.'  His  own  head  being  made  of 
cast  iron,  he  and  his  friends  did  their  well-meaning  best  to  en 
liven  Derek  with  generous  doses  of  the  foul  stuff  sold  as  whiskey 
in  the  saloons  of  the  town.  It  was  their  simple,  infallible  pre 
scription  for  driving  dull  care  away  — 

Derek  looked  back  on  those  first  two  days  at  Jamestown  as 
on  a  nightmare  many  degrees  worse  than  the  last  week  in  camp ; 
for  the  cogent  reason  that  he  himself  had,  in  a  measure,  shared 
the  general  degradation.  For  forty-eight  hours  he  was  like  a 
ship  without  a  rudder;  his  brain  blurred  with  the  fumes  of  drink 
and  bewildered  with  the  noisy  hilarity  of  bar  saloons;  his  de 
tached  self,  somewhere  up  in  the  clouds,  looking  on  cynically  at 
what  men  call  'life.' 

There  had  been  brief  clear  moments  of  exaltation  and  ex 
citement.  One  of  these  had  culminated  in  a  free  fight.  There 
had  also  been  women  .  .  . 

Sickened  by  the  talk  of  tipsy  men,  Derek  had  turned  to  these 
with  something  like  relief:  —  and  had  discovered  too  late  the 
depths  of  his  mistake  .  .  . 

On  the  third  morning  he  awoke  with  a  mind  painfully  clear 
and  pockets  painfully  empty.  'Dull  care'  had  taken  flight 
with  a  good  many  other  things.  The  cure  was  complete  —  and 
lasting. 

Derek  hated,  though  he  could  not  easily  banish,  the  memory 
of  those  few  days.  He  lacked  Van's  art  of  convenient  forget- 
f ulness ;  and  the  first  blot  on  his  'scutcheon  was  no  light  matter 
to  this  sturdy,  self-contained  young  Englishman,  with  never  a 
trace  of  the  Pharisee  in  his  composition.  He  and  his  particular 
set  at  Trinity  had  worked  and  played  too  hard  to  have  time  or 
taste  for  emulating  the  'nuts'  in  respect  of  wine,  women,  and 
cigars.  Most  of  them  had  lived  strenuously  and  frugally  — 
with  intervals  for  unlimited  refreshment  —  and  had  kept 
straight  as  a  matter  of  course.  To  Mark  and  Derek,  in  partic- 


150  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

• 

ular,  the  traffic  that  makes  night  hideous  in  the  streets  of  great 
cities  seemed  a  challenge  to  the  apostles  of  progress,  the  dreamers 
of  dreams.  For  themselves,  they  could  only  resolve  to  try  and 
live  in  line  with  their  young,  clean  convictions.  It  is  the  most 
that  the  unorganized  individual  can  do  —  and  it  is  much. 

Now,  Maguire  and  Jamestown  had  tripped  him  up;  and 
Derek  was  at  once  too  honest  and  too  proud  to  gloss  over  the 
unwelcome  fact.  In  the  skeleton  diary  of  his  wanderings,  that 
he  kept  for  reference,  the  three  dates  were  bracketed  together 
above  the  following  entry:  "Made  a  proper  beast  of  myself, 
with  M.'s  friendly  assistance.  The  first  time.  Never  again  if 
I  know  it.  I've  had  my  lesson.  Was  feeling  all  to  pieces 
when  I  arrived.  But  no  good  whining  or  making  excuses. 
Fear  I  didn't  improve  matters  by  slanging  poor  old  M.  when 
it  was  over.  He's  been  reared  differently.  He  meant  no 
harm.  Good  company  and  a  good  chap,  but  I'm  not  sorry  to 
be  quit  of  him.  I'd  give  all  my  savings  and  a  sight  more  to 
make  a  bee  line  for  Home  or  Bombay.  I've  made  such  a  rotten 
poor  start.  All  the  more  reason  I  should  stick  it  out,  of  course, 
-and  I  will.  Better  luck  perhaps  Canada  way  ..." 

In  that  dim  hope  —  for  he  had  small  faith  in  his  own  luck 
—  he  left  Jamestown  and  parted  from  Maguire,  who  had  struck 
up  a  violent  friendship  with  the  bartender  and  lost  his  heart, 
temporarily,  to  one  of  'the  girls.'  Derek  did  not  soon  forget 
him;  but  he  never  heard  of  him  again. 

By  coasting  steamer  and  rail  he  made  his  way  back  to  Ade 
laide,  and  there  squandered  all  that  was  left  from  the  wreck  on 
a  second-class  ticket  to  Vancouver.  That  wonderful  voyage 
across  the  Pacific  should,  at  least,  be  made  in  cleanliness  and 
comparative  comfort.  His  familiar  Norfolk  coat  and  flannels 
helped  him  soon  to  feel  more  like  himself  again;  and  even  tc 
review,  with  a  queer,  detached  interest,  the  doings  of  one  Derek 
Blunt  on  the  Continent  of  Australia. 

Before  him  lay  Canada,  land  of  boundless  possibilities;  a 
name  to  conjure  with.  His  own  possibilities,  of  course,  were 
strictly  limited.  Canada,  like  Australia,  would  have  no  use 
for  all  the  varied  knowledge  he  had  imbibed  at  Oxford.  Her 


INTO  THE  DEEP  151 

first  question  would  not  be,  "Who  are  you?"  or,  "Who  was  your 
grandfather?"  but,  "What  can  you  do?"  By  his  practical 
answer  to  that  a  man  must  stand  or  fall  out  here  in  the  West. 

He  cherished  in  his  letter  case  a  certificate  from  the  friendly 
Australian  farmer;  and  he  had  a  vague  idea  of  trying  to  get 
work  on  a  prairie  homestead,  so  as  to  learn  a  little  more  about 
practical  farming.  He  had  also  a  vague  idea  that  prairie  home 
steads  did  not  grow  wild  along  the  coast  of  British  Columbia: 
an  idea  confirmed  by  a  fellow  passenger  who  hailed  from 
Vancouver,  and  by  his  own  first  sight  of  that  imposing  coast 
line:  sharply  jagged  mountainous  fiords  and  inlets,  mantled 
everywhere  with  mighty  forests  that  swept  darkly  down  to  the 
tideway  and  were  streaked  at  intervals  with  narrow  lanes,  like 
partings  in  a  thick  head  of  hair. 

"That's  whar  hand-loggers  have  bin  at  work,"  his  new  friend 
told  him.  "Logging's  the  soundest  proposition  around  here, 
take  my  word.  No  shakes,  though,  foolin'  with  agents.  Yew 
come  along  with  me  to  a  slap-up  logging  hotel  whar  I'm  known, 
and  I  guess  I'll  soon  put  you  in  the  way  of  a  start." 

Derek  was  to  learn  that  this  friendly  spirit,  this  readiness  to 
give  any  stray  or  stranded  human  a  helping  hand,  is  the  spirit  of 
Canada  at  her  best:  and  for  that  alone  he  must  have  loved  her 
because  of  the  same  streak  in  himself. 

It  was  in  that  'slap-up'  logging  hotel  that  he  had  met  Abe 
Callander,  and  so  eventually  had  cast  anchor  in  Number  One 
Camp.  For  once  in  a  way  'the  Luck'  had  smiled  on  him,  and, 
taking  one  thing  with  another,  she  seemed  disposed  to  smile  on 
him  still  — 

The  long  ride,  the  silent  companionship  of  Kitts  and  the 
forest,  had  almost  charmed  away  his  mood  of  depression:  and 
when  at  last  the  full  glory  of  lake  and  mountain  burst  upon  his 
view,  it  slunk  off  altogether  for  very  shame.  On  such  a  day 
and  in  such  surroundings,  he  must  be  a  churl,  or  the  saddest 
man  alive,  who  could  feel  at  odds  with  creation.  Derek,  being 
neither,  shook  himself  mentally,  and  defied  Mrs.  'Maggots'  or 
Symes  to  spoil  his  brief  holiday. 


CHAPTER  III 

We  can  never  attain  complete  success  in  this  quest, 
but  we  can  always  be  advancing  to  clearer  knowledge. 

THE  TRUE  SCEPTIC 

THE  railway  siding  that  was  Derek's  objective  consisted  of  a^ 
platform  and  a  shack  in  charge  of  one  '  Scotty, '  a  well-known 
local  character,  whose  chief  duty,  in  his  own  phrase,  was  "to 
see  that  they  planks  and  they  ties  l  dinna  rin  aff  thegither  the 
nicht."  Incidentally,  he  imbibed  enough  whiskey,  most  nights, 
to  ensure  unbroken  slumber,  though  the  heavens  fell.  Derek 
thoroughly  enjoyed  a  yarn  with  the  old  sinner  while  waiting; 
and  on  these  occasions  Kitts  was  always  left  in  his  charge. 

In  the  courteous  little  train  that  halted  by  request  at  the 
siding,  passengers  were  few,  and  chiefly  connected  with  Windy- 
ridge  Mine;  but  in  the  steamer  the  crowd  was  quite  promis 
cuous.  Officially  there  was  one  class,  by  courtesy  called  'first.' 
Humanly,  there  were  many  classes;  and  these  crystallized  auto 
matically  into  sharply  divided  groups.  Man  may  rhapsodize 
about  equality,  world  without  end.  Nature,  in  her  wisdom, 
will  have  none  of  it:  and  'though  you  drive  Nature  out  with  a 
pitchfork,  she  always  comes  running  back.' 

The  miners  from  Windyridge,  four  large  handsome  Swedes, 
joined  a  party  of  their  own  kind  from  the  Slocan.  In  that! 
group,  the  bottle  and  snatches  of  song  circulated  freely.  In' 
the  commercial  group,  talk  of  deals  and  commissions  took  the 
place  of  drink;  and  through  it  all  ran  the  drawling  cadence  of  a 
very  American  voice,  insisting  on  the  vital  importance  of  closer 
trade  relations  between  Canada  and  the  You-nited  States. 
They  were  natural-born  twins,  he  insisted  superfluously.  Gee- 
ography  gave  Amurrica  the  pull  all  the  time;  and  she  wasn't 
such  a  blamed  fool  as  to  quarrel  with  the  sitewation.  .  .  . 

1  Sleepers. 


INTO  THE  DEEP  153 

A  lesser  group,  astern,  was  obviously  British.  Derek  knew 
two  of  the  men  by  sight;  retired  Army  officers,  who  wore  their 
rough  clothes  'with  a  difference.'  They  were  listening,  with 
slightly  bored  amusement,  to  a  youngster  evidently  new  to  the 
West  and  disgruntled  by  Canada's  blunt  demand  that  the  man 
who  aspires  to  earn  her  dollars  shall  put  his  back  into  the  process. 
As  that  part  of  the  programme  did  not  appear  to  suit  him,  he( 
was  indulging  in  the  cheap  retort:  "No  damn  use  for  this  beastly 
country.  No  place  for  a  gentleman  .  .  ."  and  so  forth. 

He  did  not  seem  to  care  who  overheard  these  praiseworthy, 
remarks;  and  Derek  avoided  the  group,  partly  because  of  an 
acute  desire  to  kick  that  egregious  youth,  partly  because  he 
preferred  promiscuous  listening  and  enjoying  the  evening  glory 
of  lake  and  mountain,  to  which  his  fellow  passengers  paid  no 
heed.  For  most  of  them  —  as  he  very  well  knew  —  this  majes 
tic  region,  which  they  farmed  and  mined  and  prospected,  was 
simply  so  much  potential  lumber  and  'canned  stuff,'  'white 
coal,'  and  raw  mineral  wealth. 

But  if  they  cared  nothing  for  the  eternal  hills,  neither  did  the 
hills  care  one  jot  for  their  pigmy  activities  and  preoccupations. 
On  either  side  of  that  narrow,  winding  lake  they  towered  — 
aloof,  savage,  resplendent;  heights  piled  on  heights,  to  the 
ultimate  snow  line;  a  very  ocean  of  mountains;  so  fierce,  so 
remote,  so  utterly  untamed  by  man.  Here  the  blue  sheen  of 
a  glacier,  there  a  fang-like  peak,  splashed  and  streaked  with 
snow.  Round  the  next  bend,  a  rocky  bluff  darkly  crowned 
with  forest;  and  lower  down,  on  more  shelving  slopes,  the 
fairy  mantle  of  trees  in  new  leaf.  Lower  still,  in  coves  and 
lakeside  ranches,  the  transient  snow  of  orchards,  the  first  prim, 
ordered  patches  of  tilled  land  in  this  unfettered  region  of  earth. 
And  down,  fathoms  down,  in  the  blue-green  waters,  a  crystal- 
clear,  inverted  vision  of  more  crags,  more  bluffs,  more  splashes 
of  new  leaf  and  blossom. 

Through  that  inverted  vision  the  busy  little  steamer  nosed 
its  way;  stopping  here  to  deliver,  there  to  pick  up,  letters, 
parcels,  or  freight;  while  the  miners  boozed  and  the  American 
argued,  and  the  snows  began  to  take  colours  and  the  shadows 


154  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

deepened  from  purple  to  black,  and  Derek  fell  into  casual  talk 
with  a  tough,  grizzled  lumberman,  full  of  yarns  and  grievances 
about  'graft'  and  'political  pull'  that  closed  great  tracts  of 
country  against  bona-Jide  loggers  for  the  profit  of  mere  specula 
tors  .  .  . 

Derek  decided,  for  the  fiftieth  time,  that  a  Lake  steamer  was 
an  ideal  form  of  locomotion.  He  was  in  no  hurry  to  reach  his 
landing  stage;  yet  it  would  be  very  pleasant  to  see  them  all 
again;  to  enjoy,  even  for  one  night,  the  seemly  securities,  the 
good  familiar  sense  of  Home.  His  connection  with  Macrae 
dated  from  early  autumn.  There  had  been  a  slack  time  in  the 
camps:  and,  instead  of  'blowing  in'  his  wages  at  Vancouver, 
he  had  spent  two  months  on  Macrae's  little  ranch,  fruit-picking 
and  making  himself  generally  useful.  Symes,  rather  to  his 
surprise,  had  followed  suit  for  a  month:  and  this  was  the  man 
ner  of  their  mutual  introduction  to  Lois  Aymes. 

She  was  a  refined,  fragile-looking  creature;  the  nearest  thing 
to  a  lady  that  Derek  had  encountered  since  leaving  home. 
Her  position  at  Macrae's  was  a  cross  between  lady  help  and 
nursery  governess  to  two  children  aged  five  and  seven.  Her 
chief  interests  appeared  to  be  reading  novels  and  'passing  the 
time'  with  one  or  another  of  the  men  on  the  ranch.  This  was 
natural  enough,  and  probably  harmless  enough;  though,  for 
the  girl's  sake,  Derek  would  have  liked  to  feel  more  certain  of 
that  last.  Symes  had  not  stayed  long  enough  to  be  of  any 
account.  It  was  Jos  Agar,  one  of  the  foremen,  who  had  chiefly 
roused  Derek's  distrust.  He  was  a  big,  powerful  fellow,  rough- 
mannered  with  his  mates,  but  soft-spoken  when  he  chose. 
That  he  fascinated  Lois  had  long  been  apparent  to  every  one, 
himself  included;  and  Derek  saw  elements  of  tragedy  in  the 
affair,  which  invested  her  with  a  touch  of  pathos  in  his  eyes. 
Her  confiding  ways  gave  him  much  the  same  pleasant  thrill 
as  when  Bill  Margett  or  'Salie  Macrae  slipped  a  clinging  hand 
into  his  own.  So,  to  her  shy  advances,  he  had  responded  in  his 
reserved,  unhurried  fashion;  and  an  easy  friendliness  had 
sprung  up  between  them.  Since  then  he  had  paid  brief  visits 
to  the  Ranch  whenever  opportunity  permitted;  and  occasion- 


INTO  THE  DEEP  155 

ally  she  wrote  to  him ;  untidy,  impulsive  notes,  giving  him  news 
of  them  all. 

The  last  one,  received  a  few  days  ago,  ended  with  the  childish 
appeal :  "  Do  come  along  soon  and  liven  us  up.  All  the  fruit  trees 
are  out  and  it's  like  fairyland.  I  hate  giving  lessons  this  weather. 
And  the  children  hate  them  worse  than  I  do.  'Salie  sends  a  kiss. 
Suppose  I  can  only  send  regards !  Very  sincerely,  Lois  Aymes." 

That  note  set  him  wondering  —  had  Agar  sheered  off  and 
was  she  feeling  bored  in  consequence?  Well  —  he  would  soon 
know  now.  It  eased  his  sense  of  separation  to  feel  he  had  a 
real  link  with  the  homely  human  interest  of  it  all. 

The  sky  was  flushed  with  the  aftermath  of  sunset,  and  the 
waters  had  taken  on  a  purple  sheen,  when  the  little  steamer 
ran  alongside  Beulah  Landing.  Macrae's  homestead  was  little 
more  than  a  mile  inland:  and  very  soon  Derek  was  in  the  Ranch 
itself.  His  road  ran  along  a  strip  of  high  ground,  sloping  away, 
on  either  hand,  to  rows  of  pear,  plum,  and  cherry  trees  in  full 
bloom.  It  was  like  fairyland,  as  Lois  had  said;  and  a  little 
farther  on  he  halted  and  stood  looking  dowm  at  it  all  ... 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  of  a  shadow  moving  between  the 
trees.  As  it  emerged  into  a  clearer  space,  he  discovered  it  to 
be  a  man  and  woman  so  closely  linked  that  they  made  one  out 
line;  and,  with  a  distinctly  unpleasant  shock,  he  recognized 
—  Agar  and  Lois  Aymes.  The  man's  arm  was  round  her  and 
her  uncovered  head  rested  against  it.  In  the  open,  Derek 
could  distinguish  details;  the  gleam  of  her  hair,  the  tilt  of  her 
slim  body  towards  him.  And  while  he  watched  they  came  to  a 
standstill,  as  if  in  earnest  talk.  Then,  impulsively,  Lois  turned 
to  Agar,  her  head  tilted  backward,  her  face  lifted  to  his  — 

And  Derek,  with  a  tingling,  uncomfortable  revulsion  of  feel 
ing,  turned  sharply  away. 

What  did  it  all  amount  to?  He  challenged  Agar,  mentally, 
as  he  strode  on  through  the  gathering  dusk.  Mrs.  Macrae 
ought  to  keep  stricter  watch  over  a  girl  like  that  in  a  world  of 
rough,  casual  men:  though  in  truth  the  good  soul  had  more 
than  enough  to  occupy  her  from  morning  till  night. 


156  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

As  he  stepped  on  to  the  rose-covered  veranda,  she  welcomed 
him  with  her  large  smile  and  possessive  grip:  a  brisk,  capable 
woman  in  the  middle  thirties;  candid,  yet  good-natured,  and  of 
curiously  unfeminine  outline.  All  her  bones  seemed  a  size  too 
large.  Her  hips  had  no  alluring  curves.  Her  face  was  the 
shape  of  a  friendly  brick,  and  much  the  same  colour,  set  with  a 
pah"  of  very  blue  eyes.  Her  cheap  print  'shirt-waist'  was 
finished  with  a  man's  collar  and  tie;  and  her  ill-cut  twreed  skirt 
bore  the  hall-mark  home-made.  Withal,  she  managed  to  pro 
duce  a  general  impression  of  comeliness  that  emanated  from 
within.  "I'm  square  and  I  act  square,"  she  would  tell  you, 
with  her  smiling  candour.  And  it  was  true.  With  the  help 
of  one  inestimable  Chinaman,  she  did  all  her  own  housework, 
washing,  and  baking;  yet  generally  found  leisure  to  be  at  ease 
with  her  sewing  from  five  o'clock  onward.  Derek  had  taken  a 
liking  to  her  from  the  first,  and  -she  frankly  returned  the 
compliment. 

"It's  real  good  to  see  you  again,"  said  she,  with  patent  sin 
cerity.  "I've  kept  a  nice  bit  of  supper  hot.  And  d'you  sup 
pose  that  young  scapegrace,  Al,  wrould  go  to  bed  till  you'd 
come?  Not  he!  They're  off  somewhere  just  now.  Guess  Lois 
has  her  eye  on  them.  The  spring's  gone  to  her  head  some. 
But  she's  not  been  looking  quite  so  dandy  lately.  Her  cough 
worries  her." 

Still  talking,  she  vanished  into  the  kitchen,  and  reappeared 
with  a  half-demolished  meat  pie,  which  she  supplemented  with 
home-made  bread,  cheese,  waffles,  maple  syrup,  and  a  bottle  of 
light  beer. 

Then  she  sat  down  by  him,  a  stocking  over  one  hand,  a  dag- 
gerlike  needle  in  the  other.  The  supper-table  was  set  across 
one  end  of  the  living-room.  At  the  other  end,  a  few  cane  chairs, 
a  round  table,  and  a  hired  cottage  piano  were  grouped  about 
the  stove.  Macrae  himself,  a  hard-headed,  hard-drinking  Scot, 
Mved  chiefly  in  his  'office,'  where,  at  present,  he  and  a  few  con 
genial  spirits  were  playing  'slough.' 

And,  while  Derek  did  full  justice  to  his  belated  meal,  and  the 
darning-needle  stabbed  'Salie's  stocking,  Mrs.  Macrae's  flow  of 


INTO  THE  DEEP  157 

talk  took  on  a  more  confidential  tone.  Lois  seemed  rather  on 
her  mind. 

"She  did  oughter  many,  that  girl,"  was  her  sage  conclusion; 
and  Derek  opined  that  the  odds  seemed  in  favour  of  it. 

"She's  full  young,  though,  isn't  she?"  he  added,  helping  him 
self  to  more  pie. 

"Just  turned  twenty,"  Mrs.  Macrae  informed  him  with  a 
sidelong  glance  of  which  he  was  placidly  unaware.  "Plenty 
girls  marry  earlier;  and  she's  a  lone  thing,  poor  dear.  No  be 
longings  on  earth  but  a  stepmother,  who  nags  her  Me  out 
because  she's  soft  and  feckless.  Fact  is,  she  wasn't  reared  to 
earn  her  living.  Her  poor  father  never  thought  she'd  need. 
For  she's  of  good  stock,  Derek  Blunt.  Her  dead  mother  was 
my  first  cousin.  That's  how  she's  here:  and  she  does  her  best, 
poor  child!  But,  as  I  say,  she'd  ought  to  marry.  The  man's  her 
line:  and  mebbe  that's  about  the  best  you  can  say  of  a  woman." 

"Yes  —  perhaps  —  if  she  hits  on  the  right  one." 

"Well,  I  guess  she  will  —  if  he  gives  her  half  a  chance." 

A  lurking  significance  in  her  tone  prompted  Derek  to  say 
frankly:  "You  don't  mean  Agar?" 

The  note  of  disapproval  was  unmistakable;  and  she  misread 
it  utterly. 

"Sakes,  no!  They've  been  fooling  round  some.  But  there's 
nothing  to  it.  You  can  take  my  word.  Jos  isn't  the  kind  to 
marry.  He  can  get  all  he  wants  without  that.  And  Lois,  well 
—  she  fancies  him.  But  —  my!  if  men  and  women  had  a  call 
to  marry  all  those  they'd  fancied,  we'd  need  to  be  Turks  and 
Mormons  outright  to  keep  the  accounts  square!  Don't  you 
worry.  If  Lois  is  a  mite  feckless  and  young  of  her  age,  she's  a 
good  girl  —  a  good  girl!"  Mrs  Macrae  repeated  with  what 
seemed  to  Derek  unnecessary  emphasis.  And  suddenly  he 
perceived,  with  a  jarring  shock,  that  the  kind  soul  was  by 
way  of  offering  comfort  to  a  discouraged  lover ! 

At  that,  he  plunged  desperately  into  disjointed  talk  about 
his  journey;  and  thanked  Heaven  when  the  vagrant  children 
charged  into  the  room.  But  respite  was  brief;  for  Al  had  long 
overstayed  his  bedtime,  and  now  his  mother  was  adamant. 


158  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Want  Delek  to  tuck  me  in,"  the  boy  whimpered,  clinging 
to  his  friend. 

"Sure  thing,  old  chap  —  if  you  don't  kick  up  a  fuss,"  Derek 
reassured  him  soothingly. 

"Well  —  of  all  the  spoilt  boys!" 

The  speaker  was  not  Mrs.  Macrae;  and  Derek  looked  up  with 
a  slight  start.  There,  in  the  veranda  doorway,  stood  Lois 
Aymes  .  .  . 

Framed  in  a  background  of  summer  darkness,  with  the  light 
full  upon  her  red-gold  hair,  she  looked  fairer,  more  fragile  than 
usual;  and  as  much  out  of  place  in  the  wild  West  as  a  lily-of-the- 
valley  in  a  cabbage  patch.  She  wore  a  simple  gown  of  dull 
blue  linen,  with  a  quaker  collar  that  revealed  the  swanlike 
curve  of  her  throat.  But  the  lines  of  her  figure  were  too  imma 
ture,  too  slender  for  grace.  Her  cheek-bones  narrowed  unex 
pectedly  to  the  oval  of  her  chin ;  and  her  eyes  had  a  deceptive 
far-away  look.  The  chief  charm  of  her  face  lay  in  the  mobility 
of  her  softly  sensuous  mouth. 

Though  she  apostrophized  the  boy,  her  welcoming  smile  was 
for  Derek,  who  returned  it  with  a  touch  of  constraint. 

"So  you  really  have  come,"  she  began.    "I  wondered  — " 

"Well,  you  might  have  come  along  sooner  to  find  out," 
Mrs.  Macrae  took  her  up,  writh  a  touch  of  asperity.  "And 
you'd  ought  to  bin  minding  the  kids.  After  dark,  too.  What 
kept  you  so  late?" 

Derek,  aware  of  her  faint  hesitation,  hated  himself  for  know 
ing  the  truth  and  knowing  that  she  would  conceal  it. 

"I  got  walking  too  far,"  she  said  rather  hurriedly.  "It  was 
lovely  among  the  trees.  I  didn't  notice  how  the  time  went. 
Then  I  had  to  hurry  back.  I'm  sorry.  Come  along,  Al." 

But  Al  clung  stoutly  to  Derek.  "You  put  me  all  to  bed," 
he  began  coaxingly. 

And  Derek,  jumping  at  the  Heaven-sent  chance  of  escape, 
swung  the  small  boy  up  onto  his  shoulder. 

"Don't  say  'No'  to  us,  Mrs.  Macrae.  Promise  I  won't  stay 
fooling  with  him.  And  I'm  sure  Miss  Lois  is  tired  after  her 
walk." 


INTO  THE  DEEP  159 

So  between  them  they  carried  the  day. 

When  he  returned,  Lois  was  at  the  piano,  crooning  a  love 
song;  Mrs.  Macrae  engaged  with  the  inevitable  stocking;  and 
Rosalie,  curled  up  on  the  cane  settee,  clasping  the  halma-board, 
obviously  awaiting  him.  She  was  a  thin,  overgrown  child  and 
not  pretty;  but  Derek  was  quite  uncritical  with  children.  In 
the  rare  cases  when  they  were  obnoxious,  he  unwaveringly  set 
it  down  to  their  elders. 

"Let's  play  'Stalking,'"  she  whispered  as  he  sat  down  by  her. 
'  Stalking '  \vas  a  game  he  had  invented  one  evening  because  the 
rules  of  halma  were  beyond  her.  His  solitary  piece  was  the 
Enemy,  her  nine  were  the  Bold  Bad  Brigands;  and  the  Enemy 
stalked  them.  For  'Salie  the  game  never  lost  its  thrill;  partly 
because  Derek  stalked  her  without  mercy;  and  never  patently 
allowed  her  to  win. 

And  while  they  played,  Lois,  at  the  piano,  was  singing:  "Oh, 
come,  my  love  —  Oh,  come,  my  love  with  me,"  in  tones  so 
frankly  sentimental  that  Derek  felt  quite  uncomfortable.  The 
recollection  of  Mrs.  Macrae's  discreet  encouragement  did  not 
serve  to  mend  matters.  He  had  meant  to  stay  over  Sunday 
night.  Now  he  decided  to  leave  that  afternoon. 

He  was  thankful  when  she  left  the  piano  and  came  over  to 
watch  their  game. 

"How  can  you  keep  on  at  such  nonsense?"  she  suddenly  re 
marked. 

"It's  not  nonsense,"  Derek  answered,  without  looking  up. 
"It's  a  rattling  good  game." 

"Well .  .  .  it's  long  past  her  bedtime.    You  do  spoil  them  — " 

But  'Salie  clutched  the  board. 

"Oh,  we  must  finish  —  we  must!    I  still  can  corner  him." 

"Well,  be  quick  about  it,"  Mrs.  Macrae  interposed  with  sur 
face  severity;  and  for  once  Derek  was  guilty  of  conniving  at  the 
process. 

Then  she  ran  off,  and  Lois  took  her  place.  This  time,  there 
was  no  concentration  on  the  game.  Lois  looked  much  more 
often  at  Derek  than  at  the  board:  and  when  he  beat  her  hollow, 
she  simply  laughed  and  said:  "Try  again," 


160  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

In  a  general  way  their  game  would  be  enlivened  by  interludes 
of  mild  chaff;  but  to-night  he  was  acutely  aware  of  Mrs.  Macrae, 
in  the  background,  putting  a  wrong  colour  on  his  innocent 
remarks.  Nor  were  matters  improved  when  Lois  began  to 
look  pathetic  and  tried  to  catch  his  eyes  between  the  moves. 

Once  she  left  the  room  for  a  few  minutes;  and  Lois  gave  the 
board  a  little  petulant  push. 

"It's  a  fool  game.     I'm  sick  of  it." 

"That's  all  right,"  Derek  said,  smiling,  and  sweeping  up  the 
scattered  pieces.  "I  like  straight  speaking." 

"Do  you?"  She  gave  him  a  shy  look.  "Say  —  it's  stupid 
sitting  here.  Let's  walk  in  the  veranda.  There's  a  moon  and 
the  honeysuckle's  just  sweet." 

At  another  time  he  would  have  consented ;  but  to-night  he  did 
not  dare.  "Better  not,"  he  said.  "You  look  tired  this  evening." 

She  glanced  at  him  through  her  long  straight  lashes,  red- 
gold  like  her  hair. 

"That's  just  an  excuse.    You're  cross  with  me." 

"Honour  bright,  I'm  not.  But  we  can  talk  quite  as  well 
sitting  here." 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Macrae  returned:  and  by  the  end  of  the 
evening  his  impulse  not  to  stay  over  Sunday  had  hardened  into 
a  decision. 

Next  morning,  \vhen  Lois  took  him  out  to  see  her  fairyland, 
she  had  an  inspiration. 

"Let's  have  supper  here  to-night.  You  ask  her.  She  never 
says  'No'  to  you." 

This  was  disconcerting;  but  Derek  held  his  ground.  "I 
would,  like  a  shot,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her  eagerness,  "but  I'm 
afraid  I  can't  stay.  I've  too  much  business  on  the  other 
side." 

It  hurt  him  to  see  her  soft  mouth  quiver  like  the  mouth  of  a 
chidden  child. 

"Well,  you  are— !" 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not!" 

But  her  disappointment  was  too  keen  to  be  laughed  off. 


INTO  THE  DEEP  161 

"Then  what  makes  you  seem  so  different,  and  go  rushing 
off  like  this?  No  one  'ud  reckon  we're  s'posed  to  be  friends  — 

"We  are,  though,  real  friends,"  Derek  seized  upon  that  safe 
and  blessed  word.  "If  I  could  ever  help  you  —  if  you  were 
ever  in  trouble  —  then  you'd  know  — 

He  broke  off  rather  lamely;  and  she  sighed.  "Oh,  I  do  know. 
But  it's  not  much  shakes  being  friends,  if  it's  only  —  when 
you're  in  trouble  — 

"It's  not  only  then,"  Derek  consoled  her  gently.  It  was  all 
so  young  that  he  began  to  feel  a  fool  for  running  away.  "But 
that's  when  you  can  tell  the  real  thing  from  the  sham." 

"Yes,  I  guess  that's  so,"  she  admitted  without  enthusiasm. 
"  But  I  do  want  my  picnic.  —  And  the  kids  would  love  it." 

"Well,  we'll  save  it  up  for  next  time." 

"Next  time  there'll  be  mosquitoes  and  no  cherry  blows. 
This  time's  the  only  time  —  for  anything." 

"That's  philosophy!"  Then  he  too  had  his  inspiration. 
"Look  here,  why  not  middle  day?  Just  you  and  I  and  the 
imps.  I'll  fix  it  up.  You  leave  it  to  me." 

She  was  radiant.  He  had  not  disappointed  her;  yet  he  had 
managed  to  hold  his  ground.  For  a  reputed  muddler,  he  con 
sidered  he  had  done  rather  well.  Of  course  it  would  confirm 
Mrs.  Macrae  in  her  crazy  notions;  but  after  all,  why  shouldn't 
the  children  enjoy  then-  picnic? 

They  did  enjoy  it  to  the  top  of  their  bent;  and,  later  on, 
Derek  departed  with  their  shrill  "Come  again  soon,"  sounding 
pleasantly  in  his  ears. 

And  he  could  not  come  again  soon  —  bad  luck  to  it  —  simply 
because  Lois  Aymes  was  not  the  child  he  had  taken  her  for,  and 
Mrs.  Macrae  was  bitten  with  the  matchmaking  instinct  of  her 
kind.  No  escape  anywhere  from  the  woman  complication, 
which  did  not  seem  to  him  by  any  means  the  first  consideration 
in  life.  It  wras  confoundedly  annoying;  the  more  so  that,  in  his 
reserved  fashion,  he  had  grown  fond  of  the  girl.  He  was 
haunted  uncomfortably  by  her  pathetic  look  at  parting  and  the 
clinging  clasp  of  her  hand  .  .  . 

"And  that's  an  end  of  that"  he  reflected  ruefully,  as  he 


162  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

leaned  upon  the  taffrail  staring  down  into  blue-green  un 
fathomable  depths. 

By  the  time  he  reached  his  hotel  at  Nealston,  the  morning's 
cloud  of  depression  had  returned;  and  with  it  the  craving  to  get 
away,  to  be  himself  again. 

The  girl  at  the  bureau  handed  him  a  letter  from  Bombay; 
for  the  hotel  was  his  official  address,  whence  correspondence 
was  forwarded  on.  Though  unpretentious,  it  was  thoroughly 
comfortable,  with  a  good  cuisine.  He  allowed  himself,  on 
these  occasions,  the  luxury  of  a  decent  dinner,  a  bottle  of  wine, 
Home  papers  and  a  real  armchair.  He  found  that  abstinence 
rather  increased  than  diminished  his  appreciation  of  these 
things.  To-day  he  went  straight  up  to  his  room  and  estab 
lished  himself  on  the  strip  of  balcony,  with  his  letter  and  his 
Weekly  Times. 

MY  DEAR  BOY  [Lord  Avonleigh  wrote],  — 

I  haven't  much  time  this  morning,  but  I  can't  let  the  mail  go  with 
out  sending  you  word  of  us,  as  I  know  from  experience  that  any  sort 
of  letter  is  welcome  when  one  is  quite  cut  off  from  the  things  of  Home. 
I  may  add  that  occasional  letters  from  your  end  are  very  welcome 
also.  Aunt  Marion  —  who  is  very  fond  of  you  —  suffers  from  peri 
odical  qualms  as  to  what  you  may  be  up  to.  It  would  be  an  act  of 
consideration  to  keep  her  posted  up  a  little  oftener.  And  though 
Mother  may  not  say  very  much,  the  same  remark  applies  to  her.  I 
am  philosophic  enough  to  accept  the  fact  that  silence  probably 
means  all  is  well;  but  I  admit  that  a  sight  of  your  handwriting  would 
give  me  great  pleasure.  We  have  good  news  from  home.  Things 
seem  to  be  going  well  and  young  Schonberg  turning  out  a  success.  I 
have  now  every  hope  of  persuading  Mother  and  Van  to  come  out  in 
October  and  winter  here.  A  pity  you  can't  complete  the  party. 
But  no  doubt  you  are  well  occupied  solving  your  own  problems  and 
imbibing  first-hand  knowledge!  An  ounce  of  it  is  worth  a  ton  of  the 
other  kind;  and  I  appreciate  your  constancy  of  purpose.  Some  day, 
God  willing,  we  shall  see  you  again.  At  any  rate  let  us  hear  from  you. 

Your  affectionate  father 

AVONLEIGH 

Derek  brooded  a  long  while  over  that  letter,  which  so  vividly 
brought  before  him  his  father's  keen  face  and  hawklike  eyes. 


INTO  THE  DEEP  163 

Not  a  word  about  himself  or  his  health.  So  like  him!  Still 
more  like  him  the  friendly  dig  about  first-hand  knowledge,  that 
might  or  might  not  contain  an  under-note  of  sarcasm.  The 
touch  about  constancy  of  purpose  rang  true  and  warmed  his 
heart.  But  —  judged  by  results,  what  did  that  constancy 
amount  to  after  all  ? 

Not  for  the  first  time,  a  chill  trickle  of  doubt  ran  through 
him  —  Was  he  doing  any  earthly  good  to  himself  or  any 
one  else  by  this  freak  of  lumbering?  Or  was  he  simply 
wasting  three  of  the  best  years  of  his  life?  He  had  felt  so 
splendidly  sure  when  he  took  the  plunge  —  and  what  had  come 
of  it? 

Certainly  he  had  solved  no  problems;  but  he  had  gleaned 
some  strange  and  varied  knowledge  —  for  what  it  was  worth 
—  of  human  nature  in  the  rough.  He  had  learnt  to  see  his 
England  through  other  than  English  eyes;  to  regard  her  more 
critically,  yet  with  a  deeper  pride  in  all  that  she  stood  for, 
wherever  her  spirit  held  sway  over  the  minds  of  men.  In 
Australia  and  Canada,  he  had  come  to  know  her  as  never  at 
Oxford  or  Avonleigh;  for  great,  striving  countries  should  be 
seen  from  afar  if  we  would  have  them  in  the  pure  idea. 

As  for  getting  into  closer  touch  with  the  men  of  another 
social  order,  he  had  at  least  got  sufficiently  inside  that  problem 
to  discover  its  immensity;  to  realize  that  the  thing  could  not 
be  achieved  in  eighteen  months  of  casual  labour:  possibly,  not 
in  half  a  lif etime.  If  so  —  where,  in  the  name  of  common 
sense,  was  the  use  of  hanging  on?  And  as  to  constancy  of 
purpose  —  was  not  sheer  obstinacy  nearer  the  mark?  There 
spoke  the  voice  of  the  tempter:  and  in  the  hope  of  silencing  it, 
Derek  glanced  again  at  his  father's  letter. 

One  sentence  leaped  from  the  page:  "I  have  now  every  hope 
of  persuading  Mother  and  Van  to  come  out  in  October  ...  A 
pity  you  can't  complete  the  party." 

In  October,  they  would  all  be  together  having  no  end  of  a 
good  time;  while  he,  self -banished,  would  be  picking  some 
body's  confounded  fruit  or  working  at  the  mills.  There  was 
no  earthly  sense  in  it.  All  the  old  jars  and  rubs  seemed,  at  this 


1 64  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

distance,  of  a  transient  insignificance  beside  his  deep-rooted 
love  of  them  all,  the  stir  of  kindred  blood  in  his  veins  — 

And  suddenly  it  flashed  upon  him  that,  by  then,  two  years 
would  be  up!  Let  him  stick  it  out  till  October:  then  honour 
—  and  obstinacy  —  would  be  satisfied.  His  flagging  spirits 
went  up  with  a  run.  He  would  say  nothing  yet  awhile.  Like 
Stevenson's  lantern  bearers,  he  would  keep  his  new-lighted 
hope  buttoned  up  under  his  coat;  and  be  content  to  know  that 
it  was  there.  Later  on,  he  would  write  and  announce  his  in 
tention  of  coming  to  complete  the  party. 

He  was  seized  with  boyish  impatience.  Six  months  seemed 
suddenly  an  eternity  to  wait.  Anything  might  happen.  But 
he  would  not  be  frightened  into  ignominious  surrender.  He 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  hang  on  till  the  two  years  were  up  — 
and  hang  on  he  would:  let  Fate  do  her  damnedest! 

Meanwhile  —  he  was  hungry  and  thirsty  and  thoroughly  in 
the  mood  for  a  good  dinner. 


CHAPTER  IV 

We  who  make 
Sport  for  the  gods,  are  hunted  to  the  end. 

BROWNING 

BACK  in  camp,  with  a  secret  lantern  buttoned  under  his  coat, 
Derek  settled  down  to  his  logging  again  with  a  will.  For  the 
next  month  or  two  they  wrould  be  working  at  high  pressure. 
From  morning  to  night,  forest  and  clearing  resounded  with  the 
ringing  notes  of  axes  on  wood,  clatter  of  steel  cables  and  the 
crash  of  falling  trees.  Some  nights  they  worked  overtime  by 
flare,  while  the  pines  performed  a  ghostly  shadow  dance  around 
them,  and  the  large  friendly  figure  of  Maggots  prowied  amongst 
them,  with  his  war  cry:  "Get  to  it,  boys!  Get  to  it,  all  the 
time!" 

And  what  blessed  dreamless  sleep  was  the  guerdon  of  their 
health-giving  toil!  Better  than  town  work  any  day.  Clean 
Nature  all  about  you.  Her  tempers  and  pests  to  put  up  with; 
her  strength  to  pit  your  own  against,  in  place  of  the  frauds  and 
jealousies  of  men.  Work  that  called  for  endurance,  for  the 
triple  dexterity  of  hand,  eye,  and  brain;  and,  by  supper  time, 
made  a  man  'feel  good  all  over,'  at  peace  with  himself  and  his 
kind.  In  these  early  summer  days,  wiien  the  whole  camp  was 
putting  its  collective  back  into  Abe's  big  contract,  and  Abe 
was  sending  up  word  that  they  were  'the  straight  goods  every 
jack  of  them,'  and  the  sun  shone  and  the  chipmunks  chirruped, 
Derek  felt  more  keenly  alive  than  ever  before  to  all  that  most 
satisfied  him  in  the  surroundings  and  the  life:  —  the  flattering 
knowledge  that  one's  scrap  of  wrork  counted,  because,  in  this 
vast  world  of  logs  and  loggers,  trees  were  more  plentiful  than 
men;  the  friendliness  that  would  go  a  long  way  round  to  give 
one  of  the  boys  a  hand;  the  unflinching  spirit  that  would  admit 
no  'ifs'  or  'buts';  that  bade  a  man  stand  up  to  difficulties  and 


1 66  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

use  his  native  common  sense,  if  he  desired  to  win  the  respect  of 
his  fellows  and  to  keep  his  job:  in  brief,  the  spirit  of  the  West. 

The  essence  of  that  spirit  had  been  rubbed  into  him,  at  the 
start,  by  big,  kindly  Mick  Sayers.  "Don't  you  never  let  on 
you  can't  do  this  nor  that,"  had  been  his  private  injunction. 
"You  go  right  ahead  every  tune.  Use  yer  own  horse  sense  an' 
leave  the  boss  to  do  the  worryin'";  which  sound  advice,  boldly 
acted  on,  had  pulled  Derek  past  more  than  one  critical  corner. 
Mick,  himself,  was  an  all-round  skilled  man,  close  on  thirty. 
At  the  moment,  he  was  'undercutting';  and  Derek,  on  his  re 
turn,  was  asked  to  take  over  the  vacancy  left  by  Symes,  whom 
the  merciful  Maggots  had  merely  shifted  onto  less  skilled 
work.  This  meant  seeing  more  of  Mick,  an  arrangement 
thoroughly  congenial  to  them  both. 

The  Sunday  following  his  trip  he  devoted  to  Home  letters: 
a  long  one  to  his  father,  that  gave  a  pleasing  general  impression 
of  his  well-being,  and  promised  Aunt  Marion  more  frequent 
assurances  that  he  was  quite  prosaically  safe  and  keeping  clear 
of  scrapes. 

Certainly,  at  the  time  of  writing,  his  sense  of  well-being  was 
genuine  enough.  It  was  late  afternoon;  and  most  of  the  boys 
•were  congregated  in  the  store.  Derek  was  alone  in  the  forest, 
about  a  mile  from  the  clearing,  seated  in  the  shade  of  a  very 
small,  very  rough  log  cabin,  built  with  his  own  hands,  and 
afterwards  contended  for  with  all  the  quiet  doggedness  that  was 
in  him. 

His  trick  of  disappearing  on  Sundays,  or  in  the  summer  eve 
nings,  had  roused  first  curiosity,  then  suspicion.  Then  some  one 
had  spied  on  him  and  explored.  Derek  firmly  believed  it  was 
Symes  or  Moulin,  the  French  Canadian  —  a  bully  and  some 
thing  of  a  brute.  The  result  had  been  the  discovery  and 
wrecking  of  his  cherished  retreat.  There  was  nothing  vicious 
about  the  proceeding.  To  them  it  was  simply  inconceivable 
that  any  sane  man  should  want  to  be  'so  damned  private.' 
And  they  had  registered  their  protest  by  using  his  shelter  to 
feed  camp-fires. 


INTO  THE  DEEP  167 

Derek  had  raged  inwardly.  But  he  had  hardened  his  heart; 
and  secretly  built  it  up  again,  elsewhere.  Again  it  had  been 
discovered  and  wrecked;  and  this  time  Derek's  anger  was  white 
hot;  but  his  Winchester  training  told.  He  had  no  idea  how  long 
they  were  prepared  to  keep  up  the  argument.  He  only  knew 
he  would  not  be  the  first  to  give  in.  If  he  was  up  against 
the  Western  spirit,  they  were  up  against  the  British  spirit; 
and  it  takes  'some'  beating  —  as  they  were  presently  to 
admit. 

For  Derek  had  very  secretly  removed  the  ruins  of  his  little 
shack  to  yet  another  spot,  and  rebuilt  it,  for  the  third  time, 
under  the  outspread  wing  of  a  red  cedar,  within  sound  of  a 
waterfall,  whose  unceasing  music  never  wearied  his  ears.  And 
there  the  argument  ended  —  to  his  immense  relief. 

He  discovered,  afterwards,  that  he  owed  a  good  deal  to  the 
championship  of  Mick  and  Joe  Smithers,  the  cheery  little 
cockney,  who  had  christened  him  '  No  —  yer  don't,'  and  had 
an  absent-minded  way  of  calling  him  'sir'  that  went  to  his 
heart. 

By  now  the  whole  affair  was  ancient  history.  He  could  even 
invite  a  congenial  spirit  to  share  his  solitude  and  sample  his 
cocoa.  For  he  kept  a  small  store  of  things  there  under  lock  and 
key;  and,  bounded  in  that  friendly  nutshell,  counted  himself  a 
king  of  infinite  space  .  .  . 

That  week's  mail  had  brought  a  letter  from  Jack,  at  Sand 
hurst,  with  the  Indian  Cavalry  in  view.  Burltons  Ltd.  was 
now  steadily  coming  to  the  fore  in  the  steel  and  iron  and  motor 
world:  but  the  ungrateful  Jack  tactlessly  wanted  to  know  how 
much  English  money  there  was  in  the  concern;  how  many 
German  shareholders;  how  many  Germans  on  the  board  .  .  . 

"The  old  man's  as  close  as  an  oyster  on  the  subject,"  he 
complained  to  Derek,  his  sole  confidant.  "Evidently  con 
siders  that  sort  of  thing  outside  my  mental  grasp.  Schonberg's 
awfully  friendly.  But  I  can't  cotton  to  him  and  I  fancy  he 
knows  it.  So  it's  not  much  sport  going  home  these  days;  and 
Gay  is  still  stuck  out  in  Canada.  She  says  it's  fine;  and  why 
don't  I  come  out  and  try  my  hand  at  ranching  and  we'd  run 


1 68  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

the  thing  together.    Rather  sport.     I'd  love  to  have  a  look 
round  and  get  a  sight  of  your  good  old  phiz  again." 

The  letter  ended  with  a  flagrant  outburst  of  affection,  which 
an  isolated  Derek  no  longer  quarrelled  with  as  in  the  old  days. 
If  he  still  remained  sceptical,  it  was  the  not  unnatural  outcome 
of  his  home  atmosphere:  and  his  patent  failure  to  win  close  to  his 
mother's  heart.  Yet,  now  he  had  removed  himself  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth,  even  she  seemed  to  care  a  little  what  became  of 
him.  The  knowledge  was  distinctly  comforting;  though  there 
were  ungracious  moods  in  which  he  wondered  how  long  her 
solicitude  would  outlast  his  return  home  —  ? 

Another  Sunday  came  round  —  and  yet  another:  and  Derek, 
mindful  of  his  promise  to  Bill,  begged  leave  to  take  the  boy 
down  for  a  jaunt  on  the  Lake,  returning  Monday.  He  felt  a 
brief  pang  when  they  passed  Beulah  Landing.  'Salie  and  Al 
would  be  much  better  for  Bill  than  '  the  Pictures '  at  Nealston. 
But  even  while  he  debated  the  possibility  —  his  chance  was 
gone. 

They  returned  to  camp  about  noon ;  and  Derek  went  straight 
to  the  shack.  There  they  found  Mrs.  Margett  alone:  and, 
while  the  child  poured  out  his  tale,  the  woman  gave  Derek  an 
odd,  searching  look. 

"You've  not  been  to  the  Ranch?"  she  asked;  and  Derek, 
resenting  the  question,  answered  brusquely:  "No.  It  wasn't 
in  the  programme." 

Again  that  odd  look.  "Then  I  s'pose  —  you've  not  heard 
the  news?" 

"JFAtfnews?" 

"Oh  —  there's  been  no  end  of  a  commotion  —  She  glanced 
at  Bill;  took  him  by  the  shoulders  and  put  him  from  her,  not 
ungently:  "Scoot,  old  man,"  she  said.  "Wash  and  brush  up. 
I've  got  business  with  Mr.  Blunt." 

When  they  were  alone,  Mrs.  Margett  took  an  envelope  from 
her  desk  and  handed  it  to  Derek. 

"For  you,"  she  said,  "from  Mrs.  Macrae.  That  girl  you're 
so  keen  about  has  been  at  death's  door  with  hemorrhage. 


INTO  THE  DEEP  169 

She's  pulled  round;  but  the  Doc.  seems  to  think  the  trouble's 
gone  pretty  far.  He  says  she'd  do  better  up  at  Windyridge. 
If  she's  well  enough,  he'll  bring  her  along  next  week,  when  he 
comes  to  sniff  round  the  camps;  and  they  want  I  should  give 
her  a  shakedown  for  one  night,  so  he  can  take  her  on  next  day. 
That's  all  I  know.  Likely  Mrs.  Macrae  has  told  you  a  good 
bit  more." 

"Yes  —  of  course,"  Derek  assented  absently.  Her  insinua 
tion  passed  clean  over  him.  Then  he  turned  to  go. 

"Won't  you  stay  to  dinner?"  she  asked. 

"No,  thanks." 

But  she  could  not  let  him  go  without  asserting  herself.  "Poor 
old  son,"  she  said,  and  caressingly  touched  his  shoulder.  "  Don't 
let  it  down  you  as  bad  as  all  that.  Lucky  you've  not  let  your 
self  in." 

"Me?"  he  turned  sharply,  withdrawing  his  shoulder  from 
her  hand.  "I  was  thinking  —  of  her." 

She  threw  up  her  head  and  laughed.  "That's  one  way  of 
putting  it!  Guess  you're  the  limit,  Derek  Blunt.  /  don't 
know  what  to  make  of  you." 

"Hard  lines,"  he  said  quietly;  and  went  out,  leaving  her  to 
make  of  him  what  she  pleased. 

It  was  twenty  minutes  yet  to  the  dinner  hour.  The  men 
were  still  at  work ;  and  the  bunk  house  would  be  empty.  There, 
seated  on  a  log,  with  the  sun  streaming  in  upon  him,  he  opened 
Mrs.  Macrae's  letter.  It  was  a  long  one  and  it  spared  him 
nothing.  They  had  all  been  frightened.  Lois  had  been  mor 
tally  frightened. 

"Seems  like  a  kind  of  judgment  on  her,  poor  dear — "  she 
rambled  on,  confident  of  his  desire  to  hear  all.  "For  she'd 
been  out  late  again  once  or  twice.  But  what's  that  matter 
now?  The  Doc.  says  he  gives  her  six  months.  And  whatever 
I  did,  I  was  not  to  let  her  know.  But  that  bad  child,  'Salie, 
heard  him.  And  what  does  she  do,  quite  innocently,  but  tell 
the  poor  girl  —  'The  Doc.  says  he  gives  you  six  months. 
What's  he  mean,  Miss  Aymes? '  Poor  Lois  went  all  white  and 
fainted  slap  off.  And  she's  been  that  queer  ever  since.  I  be- 


170  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

lieve  she's  scared.  Only  she  won't  speak.  Jos  came  around 
to  see  her  when  she  was  better;  and  the  Lord  knows  what  he 
said,  but  it  upset  her  some.  It's  cruel  hard  on  the  poor  child. 
But  the  Doc.  says  she's  pulled  around  wonderful;  and  Mrs. 
Wilkins,  up  at  the  mine,  is  a  good  soul.  She'll  do  the  best  any 
mortal  can.  When  you  see  Lois,  try  and  put  some  heart  into 
her.  She  thinks  the  world  of  you,  Derek  Blunt.  But  you'd 
no  eyes.  You're  too  modest  by  half.  And  —  well,  it  doesn't 
bear  thinking  of  — " 

The  clang  of  the  dinner  gong  startled  him  like  the  trump  of 
doom. 

Mrs.  Macrae  was  right.  It  did  not  bear  thinking  of.  Yet 
all  that  afternoon,  while  he  was  'undercutting,'  he  could 
think  of  nothing  else.  Lois  lifting  her  face  to  Agar  in  the 
twilight;  Lois  standing  in  the  doorway,  with  the  summer  night 
behind  her  and  the  light  on  her  hair;  Lois  begging  for  her  picnic 
because  "this  time  was  the  only  time"  — 

And  now  —  she  had  been  given  six  months.  She  was  scared 
and  miserable.  And  what  the  devil  had  Agar  said  to  her  —  ? 
The  whole  pitiful  tragedy  —  the  stealthy,  implacable  under 
mining  of  a  young  life  —  took  a  painful  hold  on  his  imagination 
and  his  heart. 

As  he  moved  from  one  splendid  tree  to  another,  marking 
each  one  for  death,  he  saw  himself  as  a  symbol  of  Fate,  the 
ghostly  undercutter,  who  moves  through  the  forest  of  human 
lives,  setting  his  unseen  mark  on  one  and  another  —  with  how 
much  or  how  little  discrimination?  He  shook  off  the  idea  as 
morbid;  but  it  haunted  him. 

He  managed,  not  without  difficulty,  to  write  her  a  few  cheer 
ing  lines;  and  her  brief  reply  gave  him  the  measure  of  all  she 
was  suffering.  For  Lois  was  not  given  to  brevity. 

"You're  real  kind,"  she  wrote,  "and  I'll  be  real  glad  to  see 
you.  Do  you  remember  —  you  said  last  time  if  I  was  in  trouble, 
I'd  know  the  true  friend  from  the  sham  one.  Well  —  I  am; 
and  I  do.  But  it's  not  much  use  to  any  one  anyway.  And  I 
can't  write  about  it.  But  —  thank  you.  Gratefully,  Lois 
Aymes." 


INTO  THE  DEEP  171 

Ten  days  later,  she  arrived  with  Dr.  Rally,  in  Abe's  buck- 
board.  Derek  was  off  duty;  for  the  camp  worked  early  and 
late,  in  summer,  and  had  three  hours  'slack'  in  the  heat  of  the 
day. 

"You'd  better  be  around  and  do  the  introducing,"  Mrs. 
Margett  had  said  with  her  sidelong  look.  "Any  old  excuse 
will  serve!" 

So  Derek  was  'around'  when  the  rough  cart  —  little  more 
than  a  case  on  wheels  —  drove  up  the  main  track  from  the 
valley;  and  Lois  was  so  patently  glad  to  see  him  that  he  hoped 
Mrs.  Margett's  eyes  were  engaged  elsewhere. 

In  a  light  summer  coat  and  wide-brimmed  hat,  the  girl  looked 
prettier  than  ever;  and  it  surprised  him  to  find  her  so  little 
changed.  The  hollows  under  her  cheekbones  seemed  a  shade 
deeper;  her  soft  mouth  had  a  pathetic  droop;  and  once  or  twice, 
when  she  fell  silent,  Derek  caught  a  strange  new  look  in  her 
eyes.  Mrs.  Macrae  was  right.  She  was  scared.  All  he  had 
ever  criticized  in  her,  all  the  trivialities  that  had  jarred  him  were 
submerged  in  one  overwhelming  flood  of  pity.  This  evening 
he  must  talk  to  her  and  do  what  little  he  could. 

Meantime,  he  was  uncomfortably  aware  of  Mrs.  Margett's 
scrutiny  and  jarred  by  the  Doctor's  well  meaning  chaff.  Rally 
was  a  big  lean  Irishman,  with  a  mop  of  brick-red  hair  and  a 
laugh  fit  to  lift  the  roof  off;  a  slap-you-on-the-back  sort  of 
fellow,  unhampered  by  the  finer  sensibilities.  Ignorant  of 
'Salie's  misdemeanour,  and  anxious  to  cheer  up  his  patient,  he 
treated  the  whole  matter  as  a  joke.  Derek  could  almost  see 
the  girl  quiver  under  his  kindly  onslaughts,  and  felt  thankful 
when  he  departed,  in  a  final  explosion  of  laughter,  to  enliven 
less  sensitive  patients  in  the  camps  higher  up  the  valley. 

By  then,  Derek's  time  was  nearly  up;  and  he  was  wondering 
how  far  he  dared  respond  to  Lois's  appealing  glance,  when  Mrs. 
Margett  —  bored  with  the  whole  situation  —  came  to  his  aid. 

"Better  take  Miss  Aymes  and  show  her  around.  And  you 
might  come  back,  later  on,  to  supper,"  she  said. 

So  he  took  her  out  and  they  strolled  to  and  fro  in  the  shade 
of  the  pines.  She  moved  listlessly,  looking  about  her  with 


172  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

dreamy  unconcern;  and  Derek,  badly  at  a  loss,  drew  her  atten 
tion  to  the  grand  array  of  peaks  that  dominated  the  valley. 

She  shook  her  head  at  their  magnificence,  with  a  small  rueful 
smile.  "They're  mighty  fine.  But  I  hate  them.  ..."  A 
pause.  "Where's  your  little  shanty  you  used  to  tell  about? 
Is  it  near  here?" 

"Not  very  far.    It's  in  the  forest,  back  of  the  big  clearing." 

"I'd  love  to  see  it  —  and  the  waterfall  with  the  deep  pool. 
Couldn't  you  take  me  there,  this  evening?" 

"Yes  — if  you're  fit?" 

"Of  course  I  am."  She  looked  away  from  him.  "I  feel 
much  better  now." 

"I'm  glad.    And  up  there  —  you'll  feel  better  still." 

He  saw  her  wince  and  cursed  himself  for  a  clumsy  fool. 
"Don't  you  get  telling  lies,  like  the  Doc.,"  she  said  very  low; 
and  her  rebuke  smote  him  silent.  There  seemed  nothing  more 
to  say.  They  both  felt  so  shy  and  tongue-tied  that  it  was  a 
relief  when  young  Bill  charged  down  upon  them  and  took  com 
mand  of  the  situation. 

"Tell  Mrs.  Margett  not  to  wait  supper,"  Derek  said  when  it 
was  time  for  him  to  go.  "Soon  as  I'm  free,  I'll  get  a  snack  and 
come  along.  Billy  will  see  after  you." 

"Yes,  I'll  see  after  her,"  the  boy  echoed,  with  masculine  im 
portance  and  a  shy  upward  glance  at  the  lovely  vision,  who  was 
quite  obviously  Derek's  princess. 

"That's  a  good  chap,"  Derek  said  gravely,  and  went  off, 
leaving  them  together. 

It  was  near  sunset  when  he  returned  to  find  Mrs.  Margett 
alone  writing  letters.  No  sign  of  Lois  or  Bill. 

"Are  they  out?"  Derek  asked  as  she  glanced  up  to  greet 
him. 

"Very  much  out.  Your  young  lady  —  who  looks  wonder 
fully  well,  considering  —  sneaked  off  soon  after  supper  and  no 
one's  set  eyes  on  her  since." 

"Gone!"  Derek's  heart  contracted;  and  Mrs.  Margett  saw 
the  fear  in  his  eyes. 


INTO  THE  DEEP  ,  173 

"You  innocent  enough  to  be  scared?"  she  asked  with  a  touch 
of  amused  contempt.  "Not  such  a  fool  as  she  looks,  that  girl. 
She  knows  right  enough  if  she  stops  out  there  you'll  go  and  look 
for  her.  So  you'd  better  make  tracks  and  not  disappoint  her! 
Bill's  been  hunting  round  like  mad." 

Derek  —  too  angry  and  anxious  to  retort  —  turned  and  left 
the  shack  without  a  word. 

In  the  open,  he  shouted  for  the  boy,  who  came  running  to 
him  with  a  face  of  dismay. 

"Oh,  Deny  —  I  couldn't  help  it  —  I  did  try!" 

Tears  were  imminent;  and  Derek  laid  a  reassuring  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  "All  right,  old  man.  Don't  you  worry.  I'll  be 
sure  to  find  her.  Perhaps  she  wanted  a  look  round,  and  she's 
missed  her  way." 

"Can't  I  come  too?" 

"No.     I  might  be  late.     But  I'll  bring  her  back  all  safe." 

The  boy  sighed  and  stood  looking  after  him,  with  dog-like 
devotion,  till  he  disappeared  among  the  pines. 


CHAPTER  V 

Heart  too  soft  and  -will  too  weak 
To  frant  the  fate  that  crouches  near; 
Dove  beneath  the  eagle's  beak. 

EMERSON 

FOR  all  his  brave  words,  Derek  had  not  a  guiding  idea  in  his 
head  as  to  why  the  girl  had  gone,  or  where.  Some  childish 
romantic  impulse,  probably,  to  explore  the  forest.  He  was  a 
fool  to  have  told  her  about  his  shanty;  but,  lacking  even  the 
ghost  of  a  clue,  that  direction  would  be  as  good  as  another. 

He  paused  in  the  clearing,  quiet  and  empty  now.  Man,  the 
eternal  intruder,  had  vanished  from  the  scene.  There  remained 
only  the  great  silent  forest  people  —  the  quick  and  the  dead; 
and  the  peak  in  the  West  wore  the  afterglow  like  a  halo  of  glory. 
But  to-night  he  had  no  eyes  for  sunset  splendours;  no  thoughts 
for  anything  but  one  pitiful  human  fragment  wandering  some 
where  in  that  dim  wilderness  of  pine  trunks  and  undergrowth 
and  deceptive  side-tracks. 

Before  he  had  gone  many  paces,  he  was  checked  by  a  shout 
behind  him.  It  wras  Maggot's  odd-job  boy,  running  after  him 
with  something  white  in  his  hand. 

"What's  it?"  Derek  asked  impatiently.     "I'm  in  a  hurry." 

"  Wa-al,"  the  boy  said,  grinning,  ''she  arst  me  to  be  sure  and 
give  you  this  anyway  —  that  gal  from  the  Ranch.  She's  gone 
off  in  the  forest.  I  tole  her  she'd  better  keep  her  wits  alive  an' 
stick  to  the  track." 

"Long  ago,  was  it?" 

The  boy  grinned  again.  "Less'n  a  lifetime!  Mebbe  half  an 
hour  —  mebbe  more." 

"Thanks,"  Derek  said  curtly  and  hurried  away,  tearing  open 
the  envelope  as  he  went.  It  contained  a  letter  unsteadily 
scribbled  in  pencil. 


INTO  THE  DEEP  175 

I  feel  I  must  say  good-bye  to  you  and  explain.  Nobody  else 
really  cares  a  rap.  They're  sending  me  up  to  Windyridge  to  drag 
out  the  misery  and  get  me  away  from  Jos.  But  I  can't  sit  still  in 
that  dull  hole  just  waiting  and  waiting  —  so  I'm  going  to  get  it  over 
and  done,  if  that  pool  you  told  about  is  deep  enough.  It  will  be 
easier  that  way.  At  least  I  hope  so.  It's  all  frightening  and  hor 
rible,  and  nobody  in  the  world  has  any  use  for  me.  So  good-bye  — 
Derek.  It  doesn't  matter  if  I  call  you  that  now,  and  you're  the 
only  real  friend  I've  ever  had.  I  heard  you  came  to  Nealston. 
Why  didn't  you  come  to  us?  Did  you  guess  about  Jos?  Well,  I'll 
tell  you  true.  He  just  fascinated  me  with  his  don't-care,  masterful 
ways.  You  seemed  so  sober  and  steady.  Jos  was  fun  and  he  was 
always  there.  But  I  know  now  that  with  men  like  him,  if  they 
can't  have  one  girl,  another  will  do.  And  he  didn't  lose  much  time 
letting  me  know  I  wouldn't  do  because  of  my  wretched  cough.  And 
if  no  man  will  ever  look  at  me  again,  there's  no  sense  in  life.  Oh, 
I  did  hate  him  when  he  backed  out.  Men  in  life  don't  act  like  men 
in  books.  But  I  couldn't  help  thinking  you'd  have  been  different, 
and  I  know  now  you  are  worth  fifty  of  him.  But  now  it's  too  late. 
And  if  I've  hurt  you  any,  I'm  frightfully  sorry,  and  I  do  thank  you 
from  my  heart  for  being  so  good  and  kind  to  your  foolish,  unhappy 

Lois  AYMES 

Don't  try  and  stop  me.  It's  simply  cruel  —  and  it  won't  be  any 
use.  Good-bye. 

It  had  been  impossible  not  to  loiter  a  little  while  he  wrestled 
with  that  illegible,  unrestrained  effusion,  that  struck  at  his  heart 
like  the  cry  of  a  wounded  thing  heard  in  the  night.  It  appealed 
to  the  most  commanding  impulse  of  his  nature  —  the  impulse  to 
help ;  and  now  he  went  ahead  down  the  sloping  trail  with  long 
swift  strides. 

She  said  it  would  be  cruel  to  stop  her,  to  drag  out  the  misery; 
and  he  was  too  honest  to  deny  it.  But  by  choosing  to  confide 
in  him,  she  forced  upon  him  the  very  thing  she  forbade.  He 
doubted  her  courage  to  take  the  plunge,  when  it  came  to  the 
point,  in  which  case  she  might  shrink  from  the  idea  of  coming 
back,  after  that  letter.  She  might  lose  her  way,  and  very  cer 
tainly  she  would  be  chilled  by  the  sudden  drop  of  temperature 
at  sunset  in  the  mountains.  Sheer  pity  mastered  him.  Her 


176  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

very  follies,  her  softness  and  fecklessness  gave  her  the  appeal  of 
a  child;  and  children  held  a  peculiar  place  in  his  heart. 

On  he  went  in  the  deepening  dusk,  peering  anxiously  this 
way  and  that.  At  last,  where  the  trees  fell  a  little  apart,  the 
undergrowth  showed  signs  of  being  recently  trodden.  His 
pulses  gave  a  leap;  and  swerving  aside  he  followed  those  faint 
traces,  leaving  very  definite  ones  behind  him. 

In  swerving  he  had  turned  eastward;  and  right  before  him 
through  the  pine  stems  glowed  the  new-risen  moon  —  tawny- 
golden,  immense;  intimate  as  a  living  presence  in  that  dim  soli 
tude.  Derek  caught  his  breath  and  stood  still.  He  was  near- 
ing  the  little  waterfall  now;  and  there,  in  a  patch  of  open  space, 
the  moon  showed  him  what  he  sought. 

On  the  rocky  bank  above  the  pool  stood  Lois,  a  mere  strip 
of  pallor  against  the  dusky  background. 

Noiselessly  he  drew  nearer  and  discovered  that  her  face  was 
hidden  in  her  hands.  It  had  not  proved  so  easy  after  all:  and 
in  the  reaction  of  relief,  he  could  afford  to  feel  annoyed  with  her 
because  she  had  come  out,  Lois-like,  with  neither  hat  nor  coat 
to  protect  her  from  the  evening  air. 

Softly  he  called  her  name;  and  she  swung  round,  dropping 
her  hands  with  a  gesture  unconsciously  dramatic. 

"Oh!  why  did  you  come?  I  told  you  not!"  And  it  was 
hard  to  say  whether  her  cry  had  in  it  more  of  remonstrance, 
relief,  or  fear. 

"It  was  the  only  thing  a  man  could  do,"  Derek  answered  in, 
his  most  matter-of-fact  tone.  "Thank  God,  I'm  in  time." 

"There's  no  God!"  she  flung  out  wildly,  edging  away  as  he 
drew  near.     "Or  if  there  is,  he  cares  no  more  than  these  terrible  ' 
mountains  what  comes  to  a  wretched  girl  like  me.    I've  prayed 
and  prayed  I  might  be  brave  enough  to  jump  —  and  finish  it 
quickly  — 

Her  voice  broke.  Sudden  tears  rained  down  her  face.  "But 
the  water  looks  so  cold  and  I  —  I  didn't  think  out  how  it  would 
be.  I  thought  —  in  one  rush  it  would  be  over.  But  —  when 
I  got  here  everything  looked  so  peaceful  —  so  beautiful;  and  I  — 
I  was  too  frightened  to  jump,  and  now  —  it's  all  to  do  again." 


INTO  THE  DEEP  177 

"It's  not  to  do  again  —  ever."  Derek  forced  himself  to 
speak  sternly.  She  so  plainly  needed  steadying.  "You  must 
promise  — " 

"I  won't  promise  —  I  won't,"  she  cried,  edging  away  again, 
nervous  yet  defiant.  "How  can  you  ask  me  to  keep  on  — 
simply  coughing  my  life  away.  Nobody  knows  how  it  feels 
Nobody  cares.  They  send  me  into  the  hills.  I  hate  the  hills. 
They're  so  big  and  cruel.  My  stepmother  doesn't  want  me 
back ;  and  I  hate  her,  too.  I  can't  stop  on  with  Cousin  Rose. 
It's  just  a  nightmare.  I've  got  to  escape  —  somehow  — " 

Again  her  voice  broke;  and,  to  Derek's  dismay,  she  sank  upon 
the  ground,  hid  her  face  and  burst  into  a  storm  of  tears. 

Never,  in  his  limited  experience,  had  he  seen  a  woman  so 
completely  lose  hold  of  herself;  and  the  tradition  of  self-control 
in  which  he  had  been  reared  made  the  thing  seem  almost  in 
decent.  Had  the  circumstances  been  less  tragic,  he  would  have 
gruffly  bidden  her  pull  herself  together.  But  her  wound  was 
mortal  He  shrank  from  laying  a  clumsy  hand  on  it;  and  the 
ache  of  pity  was  tinged  by  a  masculine  feeling  that  he  ought 
not  to  be  present  when  the  poor  child  was  behaving  like  this. 
So  he  stood  there  considerately  looking  away  from  her  to  the 
moon  that  blossomed  like  a  great  night  flower  among  the  pine 
boughs.  Then  it  occurred  to  his  practical  mind  that  she  was 
catching  cold:  and  having  found  something  definite  to  say  he 
turned  to  say  it. 

But  at  that  moment  she  still  further  disconcerted  him  by 
dropping  her  hands  and  looking  up,  her  face  disfigured  with 
weeping. 

"I  thought  you  would  be  different,"  she  reproached  him, 
with  a  pitiful  catch  in  her  voice,  "but  you're  just  as  bad  as  the 
others.  You  don't  understand  —  you  don't  care  —  " 

"I  do  care,"  he  contradicted  her,  honestly,  but  with  mis 
leading  emphasis;  and,  to  his  dismay,  she  caught  his  hand  in 
hers  and  pressed  it  against  her  tear-wet  face. 

"Oh,  if  you  care,  why  do  you  stand  there  and  say  nothing?" 
she  murmured  breathlessly,  still  clutching  his  hand.  "You're 
the  only  person  who  could  make  things  feel  better.  You're  so 


178  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

kind — so  safe — I  wouldn't  be  so  frightened.  I'd  promise  you 
anything  —  and  I'd  keep  my  promise.  I  was  a  fool.  If  I 
hurt  you,  I'm  ever  so  sorry  - 

And  Derek  stood  there,  feeling  stupefied  and  helpless,  like  a 
creature  caught  in  a  trap;  realizing  painfully  that,  by  those 
three  words  spoken  straight  out  of  his  heart,  he  had  cut  the 
ground  from  under  his  feet.  To  tell  her  she  had  mistaken  his 
meaning  seemed  as  brutal  as  striking  her.  Yet  —  the  alter 
native  staggered  him. 

For  the  moment  he  could  only  compromise  matters  by  taking 
both  her  hands  and  lifting  her  to  her  feet  with  the  prosaic  re 
mark:  "We  ought  to  be  going  back.  It's  treacherous  in  the 
mountains  after  sunset.  You'll  catch  your  death  of  cold." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  she  retorted,  with  a  smothered  sob. 

Derek  did  not  feel  called  upon  to  argue  that  point.  Without 
a  word  he  took  off  his  own  rough  coat  and  slipped  it  onto  her. 
The  action  brought  her  almost  into  his  arms.  She  swayed  and 
wyould  have  collapsed  against  him;  but  he  had  just  enough 
presence  of  mind  to  grasp  her  shoulders  as  if  to  steady  her. 
And  in  that  moment  of  contact  he  knew  that  to  live  out  a  lie 
was,  for  him,  the  last  impossibility.  By  some  means,  as  mer 
cifully  as  possible,  he  must  contrive  to  tell  her  the  truth. 

"You  can  walk  back,  can't  you?"  he  asked  gently.  "You've 
knocked  yourself  to  pieces.  You're  shivering." 

She  nodded,  clenching  her  teeth  to  keep  them  still.  "If  you'll 
hold  me  ...  I  might  manage  ..." 

"All  right.  I'll  hold  you"  —  he  slipped  a  hand  through  her 
arm.  "My  little  shanty's  not  far  off.  Better  go  there  first 
and  rest  a  bit.  There's  a  camp  chair,  cocoa  and  milk  and  things 
—  I  can  make  you  a  hot  drink.  Mrs.  Margett  will  be  anxious. 
But  you're  simply  not  fit  —  you're  all  to  pieces."  He  spoke 
rapidly,  spinning  out  commonplaces,  as  it  were  holding  off  the 
silence  that  would  force  out  the  truth;  and  all  the  while  he  was 
leading  her  back  to  the  trail,  holding  her  arm,  just  firmly  enough 
to  support  her  —  no  more. 

Once  or  twice  she  glanced  at  him  under  her  long  lashes; 
then  — •  "Derek  —  you  are  queer,"  she  said,  with  a  small  catch 


INTO  THE  DEEP  179 

in  her  voice.     "  No  one  'ud  think,  the  way  you  behave,  that  you 
meant  what  you  said  —  just  now." 

"I  did  mean  it,"  he  interposed,  seizing  the  cue  she  had  given 
him.  "Only  not  quite  —  the  way  you  took  it." 

He  released  her  arm  and  confronted  her.  They  had  reached 
the  trail  now. 

"Not  —  that  way?"  she  echoed,  her  eyes  wide  and  dazed. 
"  But  there's  only  one  way  that  counts  —  with  a  man  and  a 
girl.  Why  did  you  pretend  —  it  was  cruel  — " 

"I  didn't  pretend.  I  spoke  the  truth  —  we've  been  good 
friends,  haven't  we?  And  because  we're  friends,  it  hurts  me 
—  seeing  you  suffer.  I'm  ready  and  willing  to  do  any  mortal 
thing  that  I  can  — " 

"Except  the  only  thing  that's  a  mite  of  use,"  she  murmured 
with  shaking  lips.  "And  it  isn't  as  if  .  .  .it  would  be  ... 
for  long." 

The  childlike  simplicity  of  those  broken  phrases  and  her 
pathetic  attempt  at  self-control  moved  him  far  more  deeply 
than  her  tragical  outburst  of  grief.  Whatever  else  he  could 
not  do,  one  thing  was  certain:  he  could  not  leave  her  comfort 
less,  doomed,  uncared  for.  There  was  only  one  way,  as  she 
said,  and  thereupon  he  resolved  to  offer  her  the  most  he  felt 
able  to  give. 

"Miss  Aymes  —  "  he  began. 

"You  might  call  me  Lois." 

"Well  —  Lois,"  he  flung  it  out  with  a  touch  of  defiance  and 
his  hands  closed  firmly  on  hers,  that  were  clammy  and  cold. 
"I  had  to  teU  you  the  truth." 

Her  faint  smile  seemed  to  question  that  painful  necessity. 

"I  said  —  I'd  do  anything;  and  you  say  you'd  feel  safe  with 
me.  So  —  will  you  give  me  at  least  the  right  to  protect  and 
take  care  of  you?" 

"D'you  mean  —  marriage?"  she  asked  —  half  nervous,  half 
eager. 

"Of  course.  If  I  am  to  be  any  use,  you  must  take  my  name. 
We  must  go  through  the  form  — 

The  blood  rushed  to  her  face  and  she  tried  to 


i8o  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

release  her  hands;  but  he  held  them  fast.  "I'm  to  be  just  a 
drag  on  you  —  and  you'll  be  good  to  me  out  of  pity?  Never ! 
I  have  —  got  a  mite  of  pride,  if  I  did  —  talk  wildly.  I  thought 
—  you  cared  —  or  I  wouldn't  have  —  spoken.  I  know  —  you 
mean  it  kindly,  but  —  I'd  drown  myself  rather  — " 

This  time  she  was  too  quick  for  him;  and,  wrenching  herself 
free,  she  ran  blindly,  stumblingly  back  towards  the  river  — 

Derek  —  torn  between  pity  and  vexation  —  sprang  after  her. 
In  a  flash  he  realized  that  half -measures  must  go  overboard; 
and  in  that  flash  his  decision  was  made.  Her  case  was  des 
perate.  He  must  go  all  the  way  to  save  her.  There  was  no 
time  to  see  or  think  of  anything  else. 

"Lois!  Lois!  Come  back,"  he  commanded.  "You  must 
listen  —  I  haven't  said  all." 

Some  new  note  in  his  voice  seemed  to  strike  her.  She  stopped 
dead  and  swung  round,  facing  him.  "You  won't  —  let  me 
down  again? "she  asked  —  and  a  ghost  of  a  smile  glimmered 
through  her  tears. 

"I  didn't  let  you  down  —  and  I  never  will,"  he  answered 
gravely:  and  while  the  words  fell  upon  his  heart  like  stones, 
his  detached  brain  noticed  what  a  quaint  figure  of  tragedy  she 
looked  in  his  big  loose  coat,  the  sleeves  half  covering  her  hands. 
"  Come  —  be  a  good  girl,"  he  added.  "  We  ought  to  be  back  in 
camp." 

She  came  obediently  now  —  her  tragic  aspect  lightened  a 
little  —  and  laid  her  two  hands  on  him. 

"It's  not  only  just  out  of  pity,  is  it?"  she  asked,  look 
ing  anxiously  into  his  eyes.  "You  are  —  a  little  fond  of 
me?" 

"I'm  very  fond  of  you,"  he  answered  truthfully,  ignoring  the 
inconvenient  half  of  her  question.  By  way  of  proof  he  passed  a 
hand  lightly  over  her  hair.  She  sighed  and  smiled  in  one  breath. 
To  a  man  more  easily  wrought  upon  she  must  have  seemed  suf 
ficiently  alluring  for  purposes  of  love-making,  if  no  more.  But 
in  Derek,  at  that  moment,  every  sensation  was  subordinate  to 
the  nightmare  sense  of  being  snared  hi  silken  meshes  that  he 
iad  not  the  heart  to  tear  asunder. 


INTO  THE  DEEP  181 

"And — "  she  hesitated.  "We'll  really  —  be  married  — 
soon?" 

"Presently,"  he  said  —  and  his  hand  fell  away  from  her  hair. 
"  You  must  give  me  time  —  to  see  about  other  work.  And  you 
must  be  good  —  Lois,  and  wait  quietly  at  Windyridge  till  I'm 
ready  for  you.  Wonderful  air  up  there." 

She  wrinkled  her  nose.  "I've  no  use  for  Windyridge.  But 
I'll  be  ever  so  good.  And  when  we're  married,  I'll  slave  for 
you,  I'll  wrorship  you  — 

"No,  not  that!"  he  said,  so  abruptly  that  she  gave  him  a 
quick  look,  like  a  startled  animal.  "Now  —  come  along  to  my 
little  hole.  Plans  can  wait." 

Again  he  slipped  a  hand  through  her  arm  and  led  her  along 
at  a  brisk  rate;  and  again  she  glanced  at  him  once  or  twice  in 
sheer  bewilderment,  that  he  should  hold  her  arm  when  her 
waist  was  available.  "Derek,"  she  said,  for  the  second  time, 
"you  are  queer.  Haven't  you  ever  made  love  to  girls?" 

"Never,"  he  answered  simply,  looking  straight  before  him. 
His  brief  madness  in  Jamestown  scarcely  came  under  that  head 
ing.  "I'm  not  cut  out  that  way;  so  you  must  make  allowances, 
and  not  get  thinking  there's  anything  wrong."  It  might  prove 
a  useful  disability,  he  reflected,  with  an  ironic  flash  of  humour, 
like  being  a  duffer  at  bridge. 

By  this  time  the  rising  moon  had  conjured  the  forest  into  a 
place  of  enchantment  and  eerie  mystery.  The  trail,  deeply 
shadowed  in  parts,  was  mottled  with  pearl-grey  patches  of  light. 
Stars  flashed  through  the  pine  branches  like  diamonds  in  dusky 
hair.  The  brooding  silence  above  and  around  enfolded  them 
like  a  ghostly  presence. 

Lois  pressed  closer.     "Are  there  wild  animals  and  things?" 

"Nothing  to  be  afraid  of."  And,  by  way  of  reassuring  her, 
he  just  perceptibly  tightened  his  hold. 

"Oh,  you  are  a  dear,"  she  whispered,  her  head  so  near  his 
that  stray  wisps  of  hair  brushed  his  cheek.  And  quite  suddenly 
it  came  over  him  that  he  could  not  face  twenty  minutes  alone 
with  her  in  his  "badger-hole."  Sheer  funk  —  he  admitted  it. 
Straining  at  a  gnat  when  he  had  swallowed  the  camel.  But  he 


182  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

badly  needed  time  to  realize  the  whole  incredible  situation. 
And  she  was  such  an  elastic  creature.  Already  she  seemed 
astonishingly  revived. 

In  a  patch  of  moonlight  he  paused  and  consulted  his  watch. 

"I  say,  it's  later  than  I  thought.  If  you're  feeling  better  — 
up  to  it,  we  really  ought  to  forge  ahead  and  get  you  your  hot 
drink  at  the  other  end.  They'll  be  wondering  —  it's  hardly 
fair  on  them." 

"I  suppose  it  isn't,"  she  agreed;  and  her  evident  reluctance 
made  him  feel  a  brute.  Yet  it  stiffened  his  resolve.  Possibly 
she  hoped  it  might  have  the  opposite  effect. 

"I  can  manage  all  right,"  she  added,  after  a  small  gap  of 
silence.  "I'd  just  love  to  see  your  shanty.  But  perhaps  — 
some  other  time  —  ?  " 

"Yes.  Some  other  time,"  he  assented  cheerfully  —  and  they 
went  forward  a  little  quicker  than  before. 

Only  when  they  were  almost  at  the  edge  of  the  forest  he 
stood  still  and  faced  her,  a  whimsical  half  smile  in  his  eyes. 

"Look  here,  we  must  get  you  out  of  my  coat  and  settle  just 
what  did  happen!"  he  said.  "I  hate  telling  lies;  and  if  I  have 
to,  I  mostly  bungle  them.  But  Mrs.  Margett's  not  precisely  an 
understanding  woman,  and  —  it  isn't  a  thing  to  talk  about 
anyway.  We'll  have  it  that  you  got  off  the  track  —  lost  your 
self,  and  I  had  a  tough  job  to  find  you.  That'll  wash.  I'll  do 
the  telling  —  and  it's  all  she  needs  to  know." 

"Not  about  —  us?"  Lois  ventured,  shyly.  She  had  never 
felt  shyness  with  a  man  before;  but  more  and  more  she  per 
ceived  that  this  man  was  not  as  those  others. 

He  shook  his  head.     "Time  enough  —  afterwards." 

She  sighed  and  acquiesced.  Though  he  had  saved  her  so 
romantically,  he  seemed  bent  on  depriving  her  of  all  her  little 
triumphs  and  satisfactions  —  this  very  chivalrous  and  strangely 
backward  lover. 

"I'm  —  yours  now,"  she  added  with  engaging  meekness. 
"I'll  do  anything  you  tell  me,  if  you'll  only  love  me  a  little. 
It's  all  I  want  in  the  world." 

"Foolish  child!     If  I  didn't,  we  should  hardly  be  here  now," 


INTO  THE  DEEP  183 

he  said  more  tenderly  than  he  had  spoken  yet:  and  so  plainly 
did  her  lifted  face  await  the  kiss  she  had  every  right  to  expect 
that  no  man  in  his  senses  could  fail  of  understanding  or  re 
sponse. 

Very  gently  he  took  her  shoulders  between  his  hands,  closed 
his  eyes  and  touched  her  forehead  with  his  lips. 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  That  simple,  unaccustomed 
act  and  the  ivory  smoothness  of  the  girl's  skin  swept  him  in  a 
flash  miles  awray  from  the  moonlit  forest,  from  Lois  and  her 
tragedy  to  the  drawing-room  at  Avonleigh  and  the  difficult 
moment  of  parting  with  his  mother.  So  vivid  was  her  transient 
presence  that  it  was  almost  as  if  his  lips  touched  the  smooth 
ness  of  her  forehead;  and  there  came  to  him  a  whiff  of  the  faint 
scent  she  used,  the  very  sound  of  her  serene:  " Good-bye,  dear. 
Take  care  of  yourself.  Don't  do  anything  rash."  Could  she 
have  guessed  —  could  he  .  .  .  ? 

In  that  bewildering  instant  he  saw  it  all  as  through  her  eyes 
~-  the  eyes  of  his  own  world  .  .  . 

Then  his  brain  righted  itself  with  a  jar  and  he  found  that 
Lois  was  sobbing  on  his  shoulder. 

The  whole  thing  passed  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye;  but  the 
sharp  revulsion  of  feeling  painfully  endured. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Fate,  higher  than  heaven,  deeper  than  the  grave, 
That  saves  and  spares  not,  spares  and  docs  not  save. 

SWINBURNE 

AN  hour  later  he  was  lying  in  his  bunk  between  two  logs  that 
divided  him  from  Mick  and  Joe  Smithers.  Joe  slept  musically, 
with  his  mouth  open.  It  gave  him  a  ludicrous  air,  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  shout  and  could  produce  no  sound.  Mick  lay  on  his 
back,  in  a  wide  strip  of  moonlight.  His  strong,  clean-cut  face 
might  have  been  graven  in  marble.  A  restless  breeze  wandered 
through  the  pines  like  the  sigh  of  a  passing  ghost;  and  the  long, 
barnlike  room  was  softly  sonorous  with  the  breathing  of  thirty- 
four  lumberjacks,  who  had  royally  earned  their  six  hours  of 
sleep. 

The  thirty-fifth  lay  very  wide  awake,  realizing  very  com 
pletely  what  he  had  done;  or,  rather,  had  been  driven  to  do  by 
the  irony  of  circumstance  and  the  appealing  weakness  of  one 
unhappy  girl.  This,  then,  was  the  culmination  of  his  great 
adventure  in  search  of  knowledge!  Fate,  that  had  thwarted 
and  harassed  him  from  nursery  days,  must  needs  pursue  him 
even  to  the  ends  of  the  earth ;  forcing  him  from  his  chosen  path ; 
thrusting  him  into  one  that  he  had  no  ambition  to  explore. 
He  had  kept  away  from  the  Ranch  solely  in  order  to  avoid  the 
very  meshes  that  to-night  had  entangled  him  unawares.  And 
he  had  not  even  the  sustaining  sense  of  having  done  a  chival 
rous  action.  He  simply  did  not  see  how  any  decent  man,  so 
distractingly  placed,  could  have  done  otherwise;  nor  did  it 
occur  to  him  that  the  worldly-wise  young  man  would  never 
have  wandered  far  enough  from  the  sheep-track  to  risk  stum 
bling  into  such  a  bog.  Yet  he  could  see  the  thing  quite  clearly 
from  the  sheep-track  point  of  view:  the  view  of  Van  and  his 


INTO  THE  DEEP  185 

mother  who  —  thank  Heaven  —  need  never  know  of  his  pass 
ing  madness.  That  was  how  they  would  regard  it;  and  in 
'ruth  he  felt  rather  mad  himself,  now  that  the  chill  of  reaction 
had  set  in  and  practical  considerations  came  crowding  into  his 
brain  — 

No  question,  now,  of  Bombay.  He  might  have  known  — ! 
He  must  give  up  the  logging  as  soon  as  Maggots  could  re 
place  him;  and  find  some  occupation  wiierever  the  climate  or 
surroundings  gave  her  the  best  chance.  Incidentally,  he  felt 
convinced  Lois  could  never  run  a  house.  He  also  discovered, 
with  a  shock,  that  the  idea  of  living  alone  with  her  terrified 
him  .  .  . 

That  discovery  pulled  him  up  sharply.  It  restored  his  deadly 
clearness  of  vision,  the  sense  of  proportion  that  saved  him  from 
inflating  pain  or  pleasure  simply  because  his  own  ego  was  in 
volved.  Fate  —  and  Lois  —  had  thrust  upon  him  this  difficult 
and  delicate  job.  He  must  pull  it  through  to  the  best  of  his 
ability.  All  he  asked  was  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  pull  it 
through  alone. 

Had  it  been  a  question  of  marrying  for  life,  he  would  have  no 
right.  But  it  was  simply  a  terrible  emergency;  and  nobody's 
affair  but  his  own.  In  his  little  local  wrorld  he  could  easily 
give  the  impression  of  an  existing  engagement.  They  might 
think  him  a  fool  if  they  chose,  so  long  as  he  could  make  things 
easier  for  Lois  .  .  . 

And  quite  suddenly  he  fell  sound  asleep  till  the  strident  tones 
of  the  cook-house  gong  called  the  whole  camp  to  life  again. 

At  the  moment  of  waking,  realization  smote  him  afresh. 
But  the  thing  was  done;  and  a  strenuous  morning's  work  left 
small  leisure  for  brooding.  Not  till  he  had  bolted  his  midday 
meal  was  he  free  to  put  in  an  appearance  at  the  shack  and  bid 
Lois  good-bye.  They  were  on  the  eve  of  departure.  The  buck- 
board  was  waiting.  Rally  was  engaged  with  Maggots  in  the 
office;  Mrs.  Maggots  was  exchanging  laboured  commonplaces 
with  Lois  in  the  living-room;  and  when  Derek  arrived  she  sur 
prised  him  by  pointedly  leaving  them  alone. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  silent,  feeling  shy  and  dismayed; 


186  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

then  Lois  slipped  a  clinging  hand  into  his.  Her  eyes  were 
radiant.  Her  soft  mouth  quivered. 

"Oh,  Derek  —  is  it  really  true?" 

"It's  true  all  right,"  he  said,  smiling.  Then  a  little  awk 
wardly  he  put  an  arm  round  her  shoulder  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

She  nuzzled  her  head  against  his  sleeve,  like  an  affectionate 
animal.  "I  believe  —  Mrs.  Margett  knows." 

"  Quite  likely.     She's  no  fool." 

A  pause:  and  suddenly  she  glanced  up  at  him.  "When?'' 
she  asked  under  her  breath. 

That  simple  question  so  startled  him  that  in  self-defence  he 
pretended  to  misunderstand  her.  "I'll  try  and  manage  Sun 
day,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "Then  we  can  talk  things  over. 
So  be  a  good  girl  —  and  don't  get  worrying."  The  voice  of 
Dr.  Rally  resounded  without.  "There  —  tune  to  be  off.  So 
it's  good-bye — Lois.  Not  for  long ! "  His  lips  touched  her  hair. 

She  clung  closer  and  kissed  him  shyly  just  below  the  ear. 

Five  minutes  later  he  stood  with  Mrs.  Maggots  at  the  door  of 
the  shack,  watching  the  buckboard  as  it  swung  round  a  curve 
in  the  narrow  road.  Then  she  turned  and  looked  at  him  —  a 
deliberate  look  that  brought  the  blood  into  his  face. 

"You  going  to  be  fool  enough  to  marry  that  girl?"  she  asked. 

"Yes  —  wre're  engaged,"  he  said  coolly. 

"I  s'pose  you  understand  she's  some  crock?  Her  lungs  are 
pretty  far  gone." 

He  nodded,  hating  her.  "No  decent  man  would  throw  a 
girl  over  because  of  that." 

She  smiled  her  sleepy,  sceptical  smile.  "Has  it  bin  on 
long?" 

"I've  known  her  close  on  six  months;  and  I'm  not  one  to 
blab  about  my  affairs.  Now  of  course  I  must  quit  logging  and 
see  after  her  —  do  wrhat  I  can." 

Again  that  long,  deliberate  look;  but  it  had  a  changed  qual 
ity.  "Well  —  I  guess  she's  in  luck!  But  what'll  Maggots  say 
to  you  quitting  just  now?" 

" I  rather  think "  -  he  frankly  returned  her  look  —  "the  boss 
is  the  kind  that  will  understand." 


INTO  THE  DEEP  187 

"Mebbe  you're  right,"  she  agreed  indifferently.     "He's  soft." 

"He's  straight"  Derek  flung  out  in  spite  of  himself  —  and 
left  her. 

He  was  not  mistaken.  Maggots  —  though  regretful  and 
mildly  disapproving  —  did,  in  a  manner,  understand. 

"The  cards  are  all  ag'in'  you,"  he  said  gravely,  when  Derek 
had  made  the  best  he  could  of  a  lame  tale.  "But  if  a  man 
can't  square  the  cards,  he  kin  always  play  the  straight  game. 
It's  a  knock  losing  you.  But  I'd  sooner  have  you  quit  than  go 
back  on  a  woman." 

Just  because  Derek's  heart  went  out  to  the  big,  simple  fellow, 
whose  wife  systematically  went  back  on  him,  he  stood  there 
tongue-tied:  and  Maggots,  having  cleared  his  throat,  spat 
scientifically  out  of  the  window. 

Then  he  turned  his  candid  eyes  full  on  Derek.  "Wa-al, 
here's  luck  to  you,  sonny.  She's  young;  and  consumptives, 
mostly  speaking,  have  nine  lives.  You  may  enjoy  a  good  few 
years  together  yet  —  for  all  the  doctors  say." 

If  Derek  had  been  tongue-tied  before  he  was  petrified  by  that 
staggering  attempt  at  consolation. 

"Yes  —  it's  possible  —  I  hope  so,"  he  muttered  confusedly; 
then  pulled  himself  together  with  a  jerk.  "I  hate  putting  you 
out.  I  meant  to  hang  on  till  the  contract  was  through.  But  I 
thought  .  .  .  you'd  understand  ..." 

With  that,  he  made  his  escape,  leaving  the  mystified  Maggots 
to  fall  back  on  his  private  conviction  that  women  —  though 
the  world  would  be  a  blank  dull  place  without  them  —  were, 
generally  speaking,  the  devil;  a  sentiment  which  poor  Derek 
would  have  echoed,  at  that  moment,  from  the  depths  of  his 
heart. 

"A  good  few  years  —  All  the  afternoon,  while  he  worked, 
those  four  wrords  seemed  to  knock  upon  his  brain  like  hammer 
strokes;  revealing  to  him  with  terrible  clearness  the  character 
and  dimensions  of  the  risk  he  was  taking,  That  the  doctor 
might  be  out  by  a  few  months  was  a  contingency  he  had  faced; 
but  years — !  Years  of  estrangement  from  those  he  loved; 
years  of  Lois,  eternally  clinging,  dragging  him  down.  He  be- 


1 88  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

gan  clearly  to  perceive  the  essence  of  his  own  tragedy:  the 
knowledge  that  for  him  all  hope  of  happiness  and  freedom  hung 
upon  the  death  of  one  poor,  pretty,  feckless  girl  whom  he  had 
just  promised  to  make  his  wife  .  .  . 

Kind-hearted  Bill  Maggots  would  have  bitten  his  tongue  out 
sooner  than  have  proffered  that  ironic  crumb  of  consolation, 
had  he  guessed  the  truth. 

On  Sunday,  in  the  keen  freshness  of  very  early  morning,  he 
and  Kitts  set  out  for  Windyridge.  It  was  a  long  ride,  most  of 
it  uphill;  and  it  was  a  glorious  ride.  Now  and  again  the  track 
meandered  through  patches  of  forest ;  shadowy  regions  where  day 
was  hardly  yet  born.  But  chiefly  it  climbed  and  curved  along 
the  open  hillside,  falling  away  to  the  river-haunted  valley  with 
its  savage  guardian  peaks  that,  at  almost  every  turn,  showed 
some  change  of  aspect,  some  fresh  play  of  light  and  shade. 

He  and  Kitts  took  their  time  over  the  journey,  yet  they  came 
all  too  soon  upon  the  huddled  shacks  and  buildings  of  Windy- 
ridge  Camp;  an  outcrop  of  sentient  life  in  that  region  of  rock 
and  stone.  At  sight  of  it  Derek  awoke  to  the  fact  that  he  had 
formed  no  immediate  plans  and  had  yet  to  tell  Lois  who  he 
really  was. 

He  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  Wilkins  shack.  There 
were  but  two  women  up  at  Windyridge  and  they  baked  and 
washed  and  sewed  for  half  the  men  in  camp. 

Mrs.  Wilkins  proved  to  be  a  plump  pincushion  of  a  woman, 
with  a  heart  that  oozed  sentiment  and  kindness.  She  had 
made  every  arrangement  for  their  comfort  and  privacy  that  her 
limited  means  allowed.  A  cane  lounge,  a  camp  table  and  raw 
hide  chair  were  ostentatiously  set  out  in  an  enclosed  corner  of 
her  veranda,  a  primitive  affair,  smothered  with  climbing  rose^ , 
that  thrust  their  way  between  the  planks  and  conjured  a  mere 
shelter  into  a  veritable  bower. 

At  the  edge  of  the  veranda  Lois  awaited  him,  looking  so  fresh 
and  charming  in  her  blue  linen,  with  the  sunlight  entangled  in 
her  hair,  that  the  desperate,  fear-stricken  girl  of  a  week  ago 
seemed  almost  the  figment  of  a  dream. 


INTO  THE   DEEP  189 

The  half-shy  eagerness  of  her  greeting  caught  at  his  heart. 
Without  a  word  he  put  an  arm  round  her  and  would  have  kissed 
her  cheek;  but  she  turned  as  if  by  chance  and  her  lips  lightly 
brushed  his.  Derek  found  their  soft  contact  not  unpleasant 
by  any  means;  but  the  palpable  manoeuvre  checked  his  im 
pulse  towards  her. 

"That's  over,  anyway,"  he  reflected,  and  proceeded  to  settle 
her  in  her  chair.  But  he  found  himself  mistaken.  It  was 
only  just  begun. 

"You  look  a  new  creature,"  he  said,  smiling  down  at  her. 
"This  wonderful  air  — " 

"It's  not  that."  Her  eyes  were  eloquent.  "Don't  stand 
there  looking  uncomfortable.  Sit  here  and  smoke." 

She  drew  his  chair  so  close  that  when  he  rested  an  elbow  on  it 
she  could  lean  her  head  against  him.  He  felt  a  brute  for  ob 
jecting  to  the  arrangement;  suppressed  a  sigh  and  accepted  the 
inevitable. 

"Hope  I  haven't  got  to  stay  up  here  much  longer,  Derek," 
she  remarked  presently;  and  he  proceeded  to  explain  matters  as 
best  he  could,  addressing  his  remarks  to  the  crown  of  her  head 
and  the  delicate  tip  of  her  nose  and  chin. 

"If  I  quit  logging,  I  could  work  for  Macrae.  It's  homely 
there—" 

She  drew  in  a  sharp  breath.  "Oh  —  but  —  I  couldn't.  Be 
cause  of  Jos  — 

"Were  you  —  in  love  with  him?  Did  it  ever  amount  to  an 
engagement?" 

"I  —  don't  —  know.  He  wasn't  one  to  talk  that  way.  We 
kind  of  took  things  for  granted." 

"That's  rather  dangerous." 

"Yes  —  it  is.  But  I'm  safe  now."  She  nestled  closer  and 
her  fingers  caressed  the  back  of  his  hand.  "Deny  —  are  you 
jealous?" 

"No!     I'm  not  much  given  that  way." 

She  sighed:  and  he  added  a  trifle  hurriedly:  "I'm  sorry  the 
Ranch  is  no  go.  But  I  want  to  settle  you  where  you'll  be 
happy.  Have  you  got  any  notion  up  your  sleeve?" 


igo  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Well,  of  course  I'd  like  a  nice  little  house  in  Nealston, 
where  I  could  see  the  shops  and  the  cars  and  the  movies.  Could 
you  manage  that?" 

"Yes  —  I  could,"  he  said  slowly  —  and  paused.  For  he  saw 
the  moment  had  come;  and  he  found  that  he  hated  telling  her. 
But  he  achieved  it,  after  a  fashion;  the  bare  facts,  sedulously 
unadorned. 

Lois,  however  —  ner  mind  saturated  with  cheap  fiction  — 
could  be  trusted  to  do  the  adorning.  She  listened  entranced 
—  amazed.  She  lifted  her  head  from  his  shoulder  that 
she  might  realize  him  in  his  romantic  role;  her  prince  in 
disguise!  And  Derek,  feeling  anything  but  princely,  righted 
himself  in  his  chair  with  a  very  ungallant  sense  of  relief.  He 
foresaw  the  inevitable  question:  and  the  next  moment  it  was 
out. 

"But,  Deny  —  if  you've  got  a  fine  house  and  money  and  a 
real  live  Viscount  for  a  father,  what's  the  sense  of  fooling  around 
with  a  herd  of  common  men?" 

He  laughed  and  turned  it  off.  "I'm  not  fooling  around. 
There  are  lots  of  well-born  Englishmen  doing  rough  work  out 
here.  Very  good  for  them." 

"But  they've  mostly  made  a  mess  of  things,"  she  remarked 
sagely .  "  Have  you  —  ?  " 

"Not  that  I'm  aware  of,"  he  said  with  a  wry  smile. 

Another  sigh  from  the  depths.  "You  are  some  puzzle, 
Derry !  It  seems  so  stupid  —  -  Can't  you  take  me  to  England?  " 

"No,  I  can't,"  he  said  bluntly. 

"But  you've  got  the  money,"  she  murmured. 

And  he  saw  that  the  position  would  become  untenable  unless 
he  made  a  stand  once  for  all.  "Look  here,  Lois  —  you  must 
take  my  word  for  things,  or  we'll  never  pull  through.  I'll  do 
all  I  possibly  can  for  you.  But  I've  got  to  stick  out  here,  for 
the  present  —  and  I've  got  to  work.  The  main  point  is,  I  have 
the  means  to  give  you  a  comfortable  home  and  little  luxuries 
and  all  the  care  you'll  need  —  doctors  and  medicines  — 

He  stopped  abruptly  —  for  he  saw  the  shadow  of  fear  creep 
into  her  eyes.  For  a  brief,  blessed  half-hour  she  had  forgotten. 


INTO  THE   DEEP  191 

Now  the  inexorable  truth  overwhelmed  her,  and  hiding  her 
face  against  him  she  burst  into  tears. 

She  was  the  hurt,  frightened  child  again;  and  all  Derek's 
awkward  reluctance  vanished  outright.  If  her  sentimentalism 
cloyed  and  repelled  him,  her  real  pain  and  tragedy  moved  him 
to  the  depths. 

He  put  his  arms  round  her  and  held  her  close. 

"Poor,  dear  little  girl!    I'm  a  clumsy  brute." 

"No  —  no."  And  suddenly  she  was  convulsed  by  a  fit  of 
coughing  that  seemed  as  if  it  would  shake  her  frail  body  to 
pieces.  Derek  could  only  hold  her  closer  till  the  paroxysm 
passed,  and  she  lay  limply  against  him,  her  handkerchief  to  her 
lips.  Presently  she  removed  it,  glanced  at  it  nervously,  and 
thrust  it  into  her  blouse.  Poignant  compassion  pricked  him 
and  he  kissed  her  hair. 

"Can  I  get  you  anything?"  he  asked  in  his  gentlest  voice. 

"N-no."  Her  breath  was  still  coming  in  gasps.  "It's  not 
half  —  so  bad,  with  you  —  holding  me." 

"I'm  thankful  for  that,"  he  said  gravely,  and  continued  to 
hold  her;  while  she,  at  intervals,  opened  her  eyes  and  embar 
rassed  him  with  a  gaze  of  rapt  adoration. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  she  was  herself  again,  eager  over 
details  and  dates.  Derek  suggested  July;  just  the  civil  cere 
mony,  no  fusses  or  furbelows. 

"Not  a  wedding  dress?"  she  asked  ruefully.  "I  wouldn't 
feel  married  without  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  would!  You  shall  have  something  quite  as 
pretty,  and  you  can  call  it  what  you  please!" 

She  surrendered  her  wedding  garment,  with  a  good  grace, 
and  pounced  on  the  honeymoon.  Derek  —  who  had  left  it 
clean  out  of  his  calculations  —  looked  a  little  blank. 

"Are  you  —  death  on  a  honeymoon?"  he  asked  tentatively. 

"Of  course!  It's  the  best  part.  At  least"  —she  hesitated, 
blushing  a  little  —  "in  novels  it  always  is." 

"You  read  too  many  novels,  Lois,  and  the  wrong  sort,"  he 
said,  swerving  from  the  point. 


192  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

But  she  was  not  to  be  put  off  with  evasions.  The  honey 
moon  was  her  ewe-lamb  and  she  clung  to  it  with  meek  per 
sistence.  "  So  ideal,  Deny  —  no  one  but  each  other." 

"And  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight  —  any  one  but  each  other!" 
quoth  the  embryo  cynic. 

"Oh,  no  —  I  could  never  get  bored  with  you,"  she  countered 
fervently,  taking  the  wind  out  of  his  sails. 

"Well,  I've  warned  you,"  he  said,  concealing  his  dismay. 
"But  if  you're  dead  keen,  we'll  risk  it!" 

She  was  radiant. 

"  Oh  —  Boy!    Where  shall  it  be?  " 

Problem  on  problem!  But  he  was  quick  enough  to  see  and 
seize  the  chance  of  modifying  his  ordeal.  "WTe  might  do  the 
grand  at  a  good  hotel,"  he  suggested.  "Or  a  steamer  trip 
along  the  coast.  Sea  air  would  pick  you  up." 

Mercifully,  she  rose  to  the  idea:  —  and  at  midday,  when 
they  joined  the  Wilkins  family  for  dinner,  she  was  full  of  it  all; 
her  cheeks  flushed;  the  haunting  shadow  clean  gone  from  her 
eyes. 

To  Derek  on  his  homeward  ride,  the  future  did  not  look  quite 
so  desperate  as  it  had  looked  a  week  ago.  He  knew  very  well 
there  would  be  tragic  and  terrible  things  to  pull  through  be 
fore  the  end  came.  But  he  had  discovered  his  guiding  principle. 
It  was  her  tragedy.  His  own  share  of  it,  however  distasteful, 
would  pass.  And  his  own  world  need  never  know.  For  that 
crumb  of  comfort  he  was  thankful  exceedingly.  Like  a  good 
hunter,  he  gauged  his  fences  well  ahead;  and,  on  reaching  them, 
was  the  better  able  to  take  them  in  his  stride.  He  belonged, 
in  fact,  to  the  finer  type  of  pessimist,  who  looks  mischance 
full  in  the  face,  and  still  goes  forward  —  unhopeful,  yet 
undismayed. 


CHAPTER  VII 

There  is  one  thing  that  is  stronger  than  all  our 
plans  about  life  —  and  that  is  life  itself. 

MAARTEN  MAARTENS 

BUT  Fate  seemed  unable  to  leave  him  alone.  Whether  his 
stoic  refusal  to  be  beaten  was  a  negative  form  of  inviting  at 
tack,  let  psychologists  decide.  The  fact  remains  that  two  days 
later  she  struck  him  another  shrewd  blow,  in  the  friendly  guise 
of  a  letter  from  Jack. 

At  first  sight  it  gave  him  a  shock  of  pleasure.  Then  he  dis 
covered,  with  a  start,  that  it  bore  the  Nealston  postmark  and 
the  stamp  of  his  own  particular  hotel.  Pleasure  evaporated. 
Just  when  his  isolation  was  a  blessing,  an  urgent  need  — ! 
What  the  devil?  Hurriedly,  he  tore  open  the  envelope  and 
read: 

DEAR  OLD  DIRKS  — 

Can  you  believe  the  evidence  of  your  eyes  ?  I  can  see  you  blink 
ing  mightily  at  the  sight  of  my  fist  on  your  own  special  stationery! 
Remember  what  I  wrote  about  Gay  and  ranching?  Well,  I've  come 
out  to  have  a  look  round,  armed  with  an  introduction  to  an  English 
stockman  in  Calgary,  wherever  that  may  be!  Fact  is,  I've  had 
rather  a  dust-up  with  my  old  Dad.  Schonberg,  of  course  —  our 
chronic  and  colossal  bone  of  contention.  I  got  talking  too  straight 
about  Germany  and  England,  last  time  I  was  at  home.  Old  S. 
turned  rather  crusty.  Dad  sided  with  him.  I  lost  my  temper  — 
and  there  was  the  devil  to  pay.  Next  day  the  old  man  rounded  on 
me  for  being  narrow-minded  and  impertinent.  That  was  one  too 
many  for  yours  truly.  I  begged  leave  to  point  out  that  as  he  had 
spent  vast  sums  on  my  education  he  might  give  me  credit  for  know 
ing  a  thing  or  two.  Schonberg  may  be  all  square;  but  it's  common 
knowledge  that  the  Germans  are  playing  a  low-down  commercial 
game  in  this  country,  thanks  to  our  Radical  crew.  Anyhow,  I  said 


194  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

outright  that  if  he  was  wedded  to  Schonberg,  the  less  we  saw  of  each 
other  the  better.  Then  Gay's  notion  occurred  to  me.  Just  a  chance, 
if  we  stuck  it  out  and  did  well,  we  might  rescue  Burltons  from  the 
clutch  of  the  furriner!  Is  it  a  crazy  castle  in  the  air?  Notion  is  I 
should  spend  a  year  or  so  on  this  ranch  learning  the  ropes  —  then 
we  can  make  our  little  plunge.  Great  sport!  Can't  you  chuck  and 
come  ranching  with  me?  Better  still,  have  a  hand  in  the  little  plunge? 
Put  that  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it.  Gay  and  the  Aunt  have  gone  to 
Victoria  now  and  I'm  joining  them.  Felt  I  must  have  a  jaw  with 
you  first.  So  let  me  see  you,  first  possible  moment. 

Yours  till  hell  freezes  JACK 

Derek  ran  his  eye  over  that  amazing  letter  and  could  have 
cursed  aloud.  Then  he  read  it  through  again  slowly,  with  a 
feeling  of  stunned  despair.  A  fortnight,  even  ten  days  earlier, 
and  it  might  have  saved  him.  Now  it  was  a  mockery,  a  mere 
feast  of  Tantalus  — 

After  dinner,  he  retired  to  his  badger-hole  and  wrote  a  brief 
reply: 

DEAR  JACKO, 

Your  bombshell  has  duly  exploded  and  I'm  still  collecting  the 
fragments  of  my  scattered  senses.  It  will  be  great  to  see  you  again. 
But  I  can't  get  away  this  week,  so  you  must  come  along  here.  My 
friend  the  manager  will  put  you  in  the  way  of  getting  to  the  siding, 
where  I  can  meet  you  with  a  mount  —  of  sorts.  And  I  can  offer  you 
a  bunk  for  the  night,  if  you  don't  mind  roughing  it  with  a  mixed  lot, 
mostly  good  fellows.  As  to  your  castle  in  the  air  —  I'm  not  so  sure 
if  it's  an  improvement  on  the  Indian  Army.  But  with  Burlton 
blood  in  your  veins  I  don't  wonder  you're  keen  to  have  a  try.  For 
myself  —  I'm  not  free  now,  old  man,  to  come  and  see  you  through 
your  tenderfoot  trials.  Since  last  I  wrote,  the  unexpected  has  hap 
pened.  I've  got  myself  engaged  to  be  married.  You  can't  be  more 
surprised  than  I  am.  I  met  her  at  the  Ranch  I  told  you  of.  Her 
name  is  Lois  Aymes.  She  is  pretty  and  very  delicate.  In  fact 
there's  just  been  a  rather  bad  illness  and  the  doctor  says  her  lungs 
are  affected  —  seriously.  So  it's  a  sad  sort  of  business  for  both  of 
us.  Just  the  kind  of  thing  that  would  happen  to  me.  And — see  here, 
Jacko,  I'm  not  telling  them  at  home.  She's  a  dear,  good  girl,  but 
not  exactly  their  sort.  And  as  there's  this  trouble,  she's  better  out 


INTO  THE  DEEP  195 

here.  So  here  I  propose  to  remain  for  the  present.  But  I  must 
quit  roughing  it  and  make  a  home  for  her.  Just  accept  the  facts  and 
don't  plague  me  with  questions,  there's  a  good  chap.  I'm  keen  to 
hear  all  your  plans  and  news.  So  there'll  be  plenty  to  jaw  about. 
Come  Thursday  if  you  can. 

Yours  ever  DEREK 

Sport  the  roughest  togs  you  possess,  or  it  will  be  a  case  of,  "Who's 
your  dandy  friend?  " 

Jack  came  on  Thursday,  in  his  roughest  togs,  and  Derek  met 
him  at  the  siding  with  Kitts  and  a  brother  cayuse  contributed 
by  Maggots,  who  had  given  him  half  a  day  off.  Jack  was  in 
great  spirits,  admiring  everything,  and  there  was  'plenty  to 
jaw  about,'  apart  from  Derek's  disturbing  and  rather  mysterious 
communication ;  and  yet  — 

Every  now  and  then  their  talk  would  hang  fire,  in  an  odd, 
unnatural  way  that  robbed  their  intercourse  of  its  old  free-and- 
easy  flavour.  Though  Derek  had  always  been  a  'secretive 
villain'  at  best,  one  could  frankly  chaff  him  about  it.  There 
had  never  been  the  awkward  under-sense  of  having  to  tread 
cautiously  here,  or  sheer  off  altogether  there.  Also,  he  seemed 
to  have  grown  years  older  and  miles  farther  away. 

"Confound  the  women!"  thought  Jack,  who  personally  ap 
preciated  them  as  the  luckless  Derek  had  never  done.  And  he 
straightway  concluded,  with  youthful  sapience,  that  the  pretty 
delicate  thing  was  'no  chicken'  and  had  doubtless  inveigled 
old  Dirks  • — •  who  was  as  innocent  as  a  babe  for  all  his  sagacity; 
and  naturally  the  good  fellow  wasn't  going  to  give  her  away. 
If  only  he  had  come  out  a  month  or  two  sooner!  It  was  beastly 
rotten  luck  all  round  — 

Later  on,  in  Derek's  badger-hole,  matters  improved  con 
siderably.  No  shadowy  third  impaired  the  enjoyment  of  their 
picnic  supper  —  canned  stuffs,  fruit  and  cheese  —  washed  down 
with  Derek's  famous  brew  of  cocoa  and  milk.  Then  they  lit 
up  and  went  into  Committee  on  Jack's  comprehensive  plan. 

"The  old  Dad  laughed  at  me,  first  go-off,"  he  confessed,  look 
ing  up  at  a  star  that  glimmered  through  the  outspread  wing  of 


1 96  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Derek's  cedar  —  "  But  when  he  saw  I  was  in  earnest  he  admitted 
that,  with  Gay  to  keep  me  on  the  rails,  something  might  come  of 
it  —  in  time.  It's  the  first  year  I  rather  boggle  at.  And  I  was 
counting  on  you,  you  old  sinner." 

"Then  you  should  have  come  before.  But  here  I  am  any 
how,"  Derek  added,  with  resolute  cheerfulness,  "and  I  can  put 
you  up  to  a  tip  or  two." 

He  proceeded,  without  further  invitation,  to  recount  certain 
incidents  of  his  own  early  days  that  had  not  found  their  way  on 
to  paper;  —  and  Jack,  as  he  listened,  began  to  understand  why 
this  new  Derek  gave  him  an  impression  of  having  taken  liberties 
with  the  calendar. 

Too  soon  their  time  was  up.  They  must  think  about  getting 
back  to  camp;  and,  while  Derek  fastened  his  locker,  Jack  boldly 
resolved  to  approach  the  forbidden  subject. 

"See  here,  old  chap,"  he  remarked  casually.  "You  said  I 
wasn't  to  plague  you  with  questions.  But  I  suppose  a  pal  that 
sticketh  closer  than  a  brother  may  be  permitted  to  ask  —  When 
is  it  going  to  be?  " 

Derek's  smile  lacked  the  sudden  radiant  quality  Jack  remem 
bered  so  well.  "About  the  middle  of  the  month,"  he  said. 

"Mayn't  I  offer  my  services  as  best  man?" 

"Lord,  no.  The  registrar  at  Nealston  will  do  the  job.  I 
hate  a  fuss,  and  —  she  has  hardly  a  belonging  in  the  world." 

"That  explains!"  thought  Jack,  still  hugging  the  inveigle 
ment  idea.  "And  then  —  what  next?"  he  ventured  aloud. 

"We  thought  of  a  steamer  trip  up  the  coast  amongst  the 
islands.  After  that  —  I  hardly  know  yet." 

All  in  a  moment  Jack  saw  his  chance. 

' '  Well — 7  do.  You  come  and  stay  with  us  at  Victoria.  I  want 
you  to  know  Gay;  and  I'm  naturally  keen  to  know  —  your  wife." 

Derek  started  at  the  unfamiliar  word.  "I'm  sorry,  Jacko;  I 
don't  want  to  seem  a  beast;  but  — •  I'd  much  rather  not.  And 
it  saves  argument  if  I  say  so  straight." 

Jack's  face  fell.  He  was  more  than  hurt.  He  was  almost 
angry.  "Well,  I'm  damned!  If  you're  going  to  take  that  line, 
you  may  as  well  chuck  me  outright  — 


INTO  THE   DEEP  197 

To  his  surprise  Derek  quietly  took  hold  of  his  arm. 

" Jacko  —  don't  make  a  blame  fool  of  yourself,"  he  said  in  a 
voice  that  recalled  old  days.  "You  forget  I  hardly  know  your 
sister  and  I've  never  seen  her  aunt.  It's  a  bit  thick  to  go  giving 
invitations,  in  their  names,  to  a  pair  of  stray  folk  who  would 
probably  bore  them  to  death." 

Jack  laughed.  "You  won't  wriggle  out  of  it  that  way.  If 
they  endorse  my  invite  —  will  you  come?" 

And  as  Derek  did  not  answer  at  once  he  went  on  impatiently: 
"What's  the  blooming  mystery,  Dirks?  You're  not  commit 
ting  a  crime.  Of  course  this  cruel  bad  business  of  her  health 
makes  it  —  not  like  an  ordinary  affair.  But  you  can  trust  Gay 
to  any  lengths  for  sympathy  and  understanding.  So  do  give 
us  a  chance,  old  man,  if  they  back  me  up." 

He  was  irresistible;  and  Derek  had  no  genuine  desire  to  re 
sist.  What  matter  after  all  —  once  the  ice  was  broken? 

"Right  you  are,"  he  said;  "we'll  leave  it  at  that,  if  the  others 
are  agreeable." 

And  at  sight  of  the  relief  in  Jack's  face,  he  tightened  his  hold. 
"Good  old  Jacko!  Did  he  have  his  aquiline  nose  bitten  off  by 
a  beast  who  had  lost  his  manners  in  the  wilds?" 

But  Jack  was  very  much  in  earnest.  "I  don't  care  a  damn 
about  manners.  But  I  suppose  a  man's  allowed  to  care  for  his 
friends?" 

"Happy  thought!  We're  in  the  same  boat,  as  far  as  that 
goes.  So  —  if  you  can  work  a  bona-fide  invite,  we'll  come 
along  to  Victoria  after  our  trip." 

And  on  that  understanding  they  parted  next  day:  Jack  still 
anxious  and  mystified;  Derek  considerably  cheered  at  the  pros 
pect  of  curtailing  honeymoon  conditions  and  spending  a  part 
of  that  dreaded  month  in  Jack's  society. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

In  her  heart  hovered  the  thought  of  things 
Past,  that  with  lighter  or  with  heavier  wings, 
Beat  round  about  her  memory,  till  it  burned 
With  grief  that  brightened  and  with  hope  that  yearned. 

SWINBURNE 

IT  was  a  clear  afternoon  of  late  July,  the  sky  incredibly  blue, 
the  air  warm  and  very  still.  The  land-locked  strip  of  ocean, 
jewelled  with  a  host  of  lesser  islands,  lay  drowsing  in  the  sun 
light,  its  milky  surface  rising  and  falling  rhythmically  as  the 
breath  of  sleep.  Only  passing  steamers  and  small  craft  set  up 
a  commotion  of  surface  ripples  that  here  and  there  aspired  to 
be  wavelets  and  fell  again  too  lazy  to  break  in  foam.  And 
away  across  the  Straits  of  Juan  de  Fuca  the  Olympian  Moun 
tains  sprang  sheer  out  of  the  Pacific,  their  rugged  masses  of 
rock  and  promontory  lowering  darkly  between  the  opalescent 
sea  and  the  galaxy  of  peaks  that  dreamed  and  gleamed  far  up 
in  the  burning  blue. 

Summer  at  its  zenith  seemed  poised  spellbound,  a  brooding 
spirit  of  peace,  above  the  frets  and  agitations  of  earth;  but 
Derek,  leaning  on  the  taffrail  of  the  Victoria  boat,  felt  in  his 
veins  and  in  his  spirit  more  of  the  languor  than  the  enchant 
ment  of  the  year's  high  noon.  The  sensation  was  so  foreign  to 
him,  the  root  cause  so  self-evident,  that  he  was  doing  his  best 
not  to  be  aware  of  either.  He  told  himself  he  was  tired  of 
idling:  but  he  knew  very  well  that  he  owned  a  healthy  appetite 
for  idling  in  the  right  company.  If  that  wonderful  trip  up  the 
coast  had  been  made  with  Mark  or  Jack  — ! 

But  it  was  Lois  —  now  unbelievably  his  wife  —  who  leaned 
on  the  rail  beside  him,  her  arm  pressed  against  his.  He  could 
feel  all  through  him  that  she  was  aggrieved  at  his  prolonged 
silence;  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  And  the  curse  of  it  was  that 


INTO  THE  DEEP  199 

he  had  nothing  to  say.  Probably  she  was  in  the  same  predic 
ament  ;  but  it  was  one  of  her  obsessions  that,  if  he  fell  silent  for 
more  than  five  minutes,  he  was  bored.  Whereas,  if  the  truth 
could  be  told,  the  fatal  thing  assailed  him  most  acutely  when 
he  was  belabouring  his  brain  to  make  small  talk  for  her  benefit. 
But  the  truth  —  so  far  as  he  was  concerned  —  could  not  be 
told;  and  that  simple  fact  subtly  vitiated  their  whole  relation. 
Already  they  seemed  to  have  exhausted  their  few  topics  of 
mutual  interest  .  .  . 

"Say,  Deny — look  there!    What  is  it?    A  fountain  in  the  sea?" 

Lois'  voice  startled  him  out  of  his  reverie;  and  he  saw  what 
seemed  a  jet  of  silver  spray  that  caught  the  sunlight,  shimmered 
into  a  mist  of  powdered  jewels  and  vanished  like  a  breath  on 
glass. 

"Never  seen  a  wrhale  blowing  off  steam?"  he  asked,  smiling 
at  her  wide-eyed  wronder;  and  he  proceeded  to  explain  the 
phenomenon.  It  enabled  him,  unobtrusively,  to  shift  his 
position,  and  led  him  to  notice  a  torn  petticoat  frill  that 
drooped  forlornly  below  her  skirt. 

"Lois  —  there's  your  frill  torn  again,"  he  said  reproachfully. 
"I  thought  you'd  mended  it." 

"I  did." 

"With  a  needle?" 

"No;  with  pins." 

"Thought  so.  Run  and  stitch  it  on  properly  —  there's  a 
good  girl.  I  want  you  to  make  a  good  impression." 

"Oh,  Derek!"  Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  "And  I've  put 
on  my  prettiest  things  — " 

"So  I  see.  Very  becoming !"  He  surveyed  her  with  amused 
tenderness.  In  her  wide  straw  hat  and  silky  summer  frock  she 
looked  pretty  enough,  almost,  to  justify  the  idea  that  he  had 
stumbled  into  an  imprudent  marriage  because  his  heart  had 
run  away  with  him.  That  was  the  best  that  could  be  made  of 
it  —  to  outsiders.  "You  look  ripping,"  he  added,  quite  sin 
cerely,  "but  you  don't  seem  to  realize  how  those  little  untidi 
nesses  spoil  the  whole  show.  Look  sharp!  And  for  Heaven's 
sake,  be  ready  in  time." 


200  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Soothed  by  his  compliment,  she  hurried  away:  and  the  blessed 
relief  it  was  to  be  without  her,  even  for  ten  minutes,  made  him 
feel  apprehensive  for  the  future.  But  then  —  thank  goodness ! 
there  would  be  work  to  do;  unfailing  avenue  of  escape  from 
every  ill.  He  would  pull  it  through,  somehow:  he  must,  for 
her  sake  and  his  own  self-respect.  In  very  truth  he  grudged 
her  nothing  he  was  able  to  give.  He  deferred  to  most  of  her 
whims;  and  was  very  patient  on  the  whole  with  certain  petty, 
yet  annoying,  defects  that  closer  intimacy  revealed.  He  hon 
estly  wanted  her  to  be  happy  —  to  forget  the  haunting  fear. 
He  was  prepared  to  do  anything  for  her,  in  reason  —  except 
make  passionate  love  to  her,  morning,  noon,  and  night;  and  by 
now  he  had  discovered  that  this  state  of  things  was  her  one 
idea  of  bliss.  Unhappily  for  her,  the  very  clinging  nature  of 
her  devotion  —  and  what  he  called  her  penny-novelette  point 
of  view  —  had  the  fatal  effect  of  making  him  shrink  farther  into 
himself. 

It  wras  all  quite  in  keeping  with  the  irony  of  life,  as  he  had 
known  it  from  childhood.  Then,  the  natural  love  he  craved 
had  been  denied  him.  Now,  when  he  had  put  his  heart 
into  other  things,  a  love  he  did  not  crave  was  given  him  in  cloy 
ing  measure  —  the  wrong  kind,  from  the  wrong  person.  But 
that  was  no  fault  of  hers,  poor  child.  And  he,  without  lover's 
love  at  command,  had  done  his  halting  best.  Ever  since  that 
fatal  day  at  Nealston,  he  had  put  behind  him  all  futile  hanker 
ing  after  the  old  life.  He  had  not  \vritten  a  single  letter;  and 
the  dream-feeling  of  detachment  made  things  a  trifle  easier. 
He  half  dreaded  the  intrusion  of  Jack  and  his  sister,  who  would 
dispel  it;  even  while  he  craved  the  intelligent  companionship  of 
his  real  own  kind,  who  would  not  incessantly  make  calls  on  him 
that  he  could  not  fulfil. 

The  details  on  the  low  foreshore  grew  clearer  every  moment: 
Victoria's  noble  Parliament  buildings  on  one  side,  the  upward 
sweep  of  the  town  on  the  other;  the  winding,  river-like  harbour 
thronged  with  craft,  great  and  small.  That  child  was  taking 
her  time.  She  would  be  late,  to  a  dead  certainty.  She  was 
invariably  late  for  everything  .  .  . 


INTO  THE  DEEP  201 

And  Lois,  seated  on  her  cabin  trunk,  was  pricking  her  fingers 
over  the  detestable  frill  —  which  she  had  twice  mended  with 
pins  —  and  grieving  that  the  most  wonderful  experience  of  her 
life  was  over.  It  had  exceeded  all  her  visions,  if  not  her  desires. 
Derek  had  been  an  angel  to  her;  and  yet  —  she  felt  vaguely 
troubled.  He  was  odd  and  difficult;  and  —  yes  —  in  some 
ways,  a  little  disappointing.  But,  for  all  that,  she  adored  and 
admired  him  more  than  ever.  The  glamour  of  Jos  Agar  was 
almost  as  if  it  had  never  been.  Yet  Jos  had  given  her  what  she! 
craved  —  the  passionate,  masterful  love-making  that  one  read* 
about  in  books;  and  she  could  not  altogether  shut  out  the  mem 
ory  of  those  thrilling,  disturbing  weeks  when  the  spring  had 
gone  to  her  head;  when  his  fierce  caresses  had  demolished  her 
frail  scruples,  and  her  terrifying  illness  had  revealed,  in  a  flash, 
the  loveliness  of  life,  the  awful  mystery  of  death  and  the  nature 
of  Jos  Agar's  love  — 

Ought  she  to  tell  Derek  —  everything? 

She  was  not  innately  deceitful;  but  first  she  had  feared  he 
would  not  marry  her:  and  now  she  feared  his  anger,  the  loss  of 
his  tender,  protecting  kindness.  The  sense  of  having  done 
wrong  troubled  her  hardly  at  all;  though  she  was  quite  aware 
that  right-minded  girls  did  not  go  all  lengths  before  marriage. 

The  grand  ladies  of  Derek's  wrorld  would  never  so  involve 
themselves;  and  she  shrank  from  shaming  him  by  a  confession 
of  such  improper  behaviour.  Sometimes  she  wondered  if  she 
were  making  too  much  of  everything.  Men  were  queer  —  she 
did  not  understand  them.  But  without  them  there  was  no 
sense  in  life.  And  her  thoughts  trailed  off  into  speculations 
about  this  'Jack'  that  Derek  seemed  so  fond  of. 

All  these  distractions  so  hindered  her  needle  that,  when  the 
engine  throbbed  slower  and  slower,  of  course  she  was  not  ready 
—  and  Derek  was  seriously  annoyed.  But  annoyance  vanished 
at  sight  of  Jack,  resplendent  in  tennis  flannels,  awaiting  them 
on  the  quay.  Beside  him  stood  the  girl  of  the  Southampton 
express,  with  the  sun  in  her  eyes  and  the  same  clear  swiftness 
about  her  whole  aspect,  like  a  bird  poised,  ready  for  flight. 
Derek  was  surprised  to  find  how  distinctly  the  impression  of 


202  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

her  had  remained  in  his  memory.  There  are  certain  natures 
that  cannot  hide  their  light  under  a  bushel.  Gabrielle  de 
Vigne  was  neither  very  lively  nor  very  talkative;  her  gaiety 
was  of  the  spirit,  deep  down ;  and  her  light,  sure  touch,  even  on 
trivial  things,  was  simply  a  part  of  her  French  genius  for  life. 

Before  the  drive  out  to  Silversands  was  half  over,  Lois  had 
lost  her  shyness;  and  Derek  —  who  had  been  distinctly  appre 
hensive  about  '  those  women '  —  felt  blessedly  at  ease.  The 
stretch  of  open  country,  with  its  English  aspect,  was  pure  re 
freshment  after  the  forest-burdened  mainland.  And  when,  at 
length,  they  reached  Silversands  —  the  property  of  a  retired 
naval  officer  —  the  sense  of  Home  struck  at  his  heart  with  a 
poignant  mingling  of  pleasure  and  pain. 

Here,  Madame  de  Fontenac  greeted  them  kindly,  if  a  little 
formally.  She  was  a  slender  woman  with  iron-grey  hair,  features 
a  trifle  austere  in  repose,  and  a  charming  smile.  Her  very 
correct  English  was  a  little  stilted  and  she  talked  French  to 
her  niece. 

Lois,  in  a  bedroom  with  leaded  casement  windows  and 
Chippendale  furniture,  fancied  herself  in  fairyland:  a  sensation 
enhanced  by  dinner  in  the  rose-covered  veranda,  with  no 
mosquitoes  and  no  black  flies,  that,  on  the  mainland,  make 
high  summer  a  very  doubtful  joy. 

And  the  dinner  was  worthy  of  its  setting  —  sweet-peas  in 
the  vases,  the  gleam  of  polished  glass  and  silver,  perfect  cooking, 
soft  voices  and  intelligent  talk.  It  was  a  long  time  since  Derek 
had  so  enjoyed  a  meal.  And  when  the  men  were  left  alone 
with  their  coffee  and  cigarettes,  they  sat  silent  for  a  spell  in 
sheer  content  with  the  whole  thing  and  the  pleasure  of  being 
together. 

Suddenly  Derek  raised  his  head  and  sniffed  deliberately. 
"Seaweed!"  he  said;  "I  can  smell  it  through  all  this.  Lord  — 
it's  good!  Are  we  near  th?  shore ?" 

"  Quite.  There's  a  path  at  the  end  of  the  garden  leads  straight 
to  the  beach." 

With  a  slow  sigh,  Derek  rose  to  his  feet.  "  Come  along  then," 
he  said.  "I  feel  like  walking  all  night." 


INTO  THE  DEEP  203 

At  that  moment  Gabrielle  reappeared.  "The  spectacle-case 
of  ma  tante,  please,  Jacko!"  she  said;  then,  looking  from  one  to 
the  other,  "Are  you  coming  in,  you  two?" 

"No.  We're  off  to  the  shore.  Don't  get  rattled  if  we're 
latish." 

Her  smile  had  an  indulgent  mother-tenderness.  "I'll  be  up," 
she  said  and  left  them. 

Strolling  through  the  garden,  they  breathed  the  indescrib 
able  fresh  moisture  of  England's  summer.  But  once  they 
were  through  the  lane,  with  the  scrunch  of  pebbles  underfoot, 
the  dream  evaporated.  For  there,  over  the  water,  loomed  the 
great  mainland  ranges  —  Canada's  coastal  mountains  and 
the  Rockies,  resplendent  in  the  after-glow.  Farther  south,  the 
Olympian  snow-line,  and  Mount  Baker,  ghostly,  aggressive; 
a  landmark  to  ocean  steamers  —  for  miles  and  miles. 

Hills  and  the  sea  —  can  earth  boast  a  more  splendid  conjunc 
tion  than  these,  the  symbols  of  eternal  steadfastness  and  eternal 
unrest?  Derek  —  though  inured  to  the  sublimities  —  caught 
his  breath  and  stood  silent.  Then  he  turned  to  Jack  with  a 
smile  of  grave  content. 

"This  is  great,"  he  said  quietly.     "Come  on!" 

Thus  majestically  companioned,  with  no  sound  but  the  lazy 
lapping  of  wavelets  against  seaweed-covered  rocks,  they  walked 
on  and  on;  and  for  that  one  while  Derek  did  manage  —  almost 
—  to  forget  — 

It  was  near  eleven  when  they  returned;  and  Gabrielle,  who 
was  busy  writing,  had  a  tray  ready  for  them:  yet  another  re 
minder  of  Home. 

"Mrs.  Blount  seemed  rather  tired,"  she  said,  "so  I  persuaded 
her  not  to  wait  up  for  you." 

"And  who  the  dickens  is  Mrs.  Blount?"  asked  Jack,  screwing 
up  his  nose.  "Can't  we  call  her  Lois,  old  man?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Derek;  "she'll  appreciate  it." 

"Good!  I  vote  for  Christian  names  all  round.  Anything 
else  would  be  sheer  rot." 

Derek  went  up  to  bed  feeling  happier  than  he  had  done  for 


204  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

months.  Jack  was  going  to  be  a  trump  about  it  —  he  might 
have  known.  And  the  girl,  too.  Lucky  devil  to  have  a  sister 
like  that.  A  blessing  that  Lois  had  turned  in  early  and  would 
be  sound  asleep  — 

But  Lois  was  not  asleep.  She  had  merely  exchanged  her 
dress  for  a  kimono  and  was  lying  back  in  her  chintz-covered 
chair  with  a  novel  on  her  lap  and  undried  tears  on  her  cheeks. 

"  Oh,  Derry  —  I  thought  you  were  never  coming! "  she  greeted 
him,  with  an  aggrieved  droop  of  her  lips  that  he  was  beginning 
to  know  too  well.  "It  was  real  mean  of  you  going  off  like  that. 
I  hadn't  any  use  for  two  strange  women!" 

Derek  frowned.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  witnout  much  peni 
tence  in  his  tone.  "But  if  I  can't  leave  you  with  them,  how 
on  earth  am  I  to  see  anything  of  Jack?" 

"Oh,  of  course  —  if  you  only  want  to  get  rid  of  me  — " 

"My  dear  child,  don't  be  so  unreasonable!"  he  broke  in  des 
perately. 

But  it  was  useless.  The  sobs  she  had  been  trying  to  re 
strain  came  in  a  sudden  storm;  choking  her,  shaking  her  .  .  . 

And  while  he  halted  a  moment,  between  vexation  and  pity, 
sobs  gave  place  to  a  paroxysm  of  coughing.  At  once  he  was 
on  his  knees  beside  her.  It  was  the  most  startling  attack  he 
had  seen  yet.  There  was  blood  on  her  handkerchief;  and  her 
terror  at  sight  of  it  steadied  him. 

"Am  I  —  dying,  Derry?"  she  asked  in  a  small  voice  when 
the  worst  was  over. 

"Nowhere  near  it,  little  girl,"  he  assured  her  —  stroking  her 
hair  that  was  dank  with  sweat;  and  she  nestled  against  him 
with  a  sigh  of  content. 

Very  tenderly,  if  not  very  skilfully,  he  helped  her  into  bed 
and  bathed  her  forehead  with  eau-de-Cologne.  Still  she  clung 
to  him.  "Stay  by  me,  darling  —  I'm  frightened."  And  after 
a  pause:  "Will  you  —  kiss  my  eyes  to  sleep?" 

It  was  her  childish,  sentimental  fancy  that  his  kiss  on  her  lids 
would  charm  away  night  terrors;  and  because  it  was  childish, 
it  appealed  to  him.  So  he  kissed  them  in  turn  and  stayed  by 
her  till  the  clinging  fingers  fell  away  from  his.  Then  he  un- 


INTO  THE  DEEP  205 

dressed  and  slipped  into  his  own  bed,  devoutly  hoping  she 
would  be  better  in  the  morning. 

She  was  not  better  in  the  morning.  She  awoke  flushed  and 
feverish,  obviously  unfit  to  get  up.  He  had  all  a  man's  dislike 
of  making  a  fuss  in  a  strange  house;  and  he  went  down  dreading 
it.  But  Jack's  amazing  sister  received  the  information  without 
turning  a  hair.  Derek  was  not  to  be  anxious.  The  poor 
child  was  probably  a  little  overdone.  She  would  send  for  Dr. 
Clifton.  And  she  insisted  on  carrying  up  the  tray  herself; 
while  Madame  de  Fontenac  —  charmed  to  find  that  Derek 
could  talk  French  —  made  gracious  enquiries  that  completely 
set  him  at  ease. 

For  all  that,  he  felt  convinced  that  they  must  clear  out;  and 
he  said  as  much  to  Jack  the  first  moment  they  were  alone. 
Knowing  his  Jack  he  was  prepared  for  a  tussle;  for  anything,  in 
fact,  except  what  actually  occurred. 

The  tussle  took  place  in  the  veranda.  Jack  would  not  hear 
of  it.  Derek  would  hear  of  nothing  else. 

"We're  obviously  unsuitable  as  guests,"  he  insisted,  after 
Jack  had  wasted  several  rounds  of  ammunition  on  him.  "I 
must  take  her  straight  back  —  settle  her  in  — " 

At  that  point  Gabrielle  appeared  on  the  scene,  and  Jack 
flung  a  detaining  arm  round  her  shoulder. 

"  Gay,  you  darling,  come  and  stand  up  for  me.  Dirks  is  the 
most  obstinate  beast  in  creation.  He's  talking  rot  about  rush 
ing  off  instanter.  I've  told  him  that's  an  insult  and  he's  a 
blithering  idiot.  Kindly  confirm  my  statements." 

She  proceeded  to  confirm  them,  with  such  patent  sincerity, 
that  Derek  could  no  longer  hold  his  ground. 

"If  you  want  the  real  truth,  it's  you  two  men  who  would 
be  better  elsewhere  —  for  the  moment.  In  fact,  I  was  coming 
to  suggest  it,"  she  added,  in  response  to  Derek's  incredulous 
gaze.  "There's  nothing  to  be  anxious  about,  Dr.  Clifton  says. 
A  few  days'  rest  and  —  qa  ira.  If  you'll  trust  her  to  me  — 

Derek,  fearful  of  betraying  his  relief,  was  thankful  for  Jack's 
shout  of  triumph. 


206  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"There  now!  What  did  I  say,  you  old  sceptic?  Gay  never 
loves  any  one  properly  till  they're  ill." 

"  Jacko,  you're  superfluous ! "  The  girl  laughingly  waved  him 
aside.  Then  she  turned  to  Derek. 

"I've  told  her  it's  a  sound  prescription  —  that  I  shall  be 
delighted—" 

"You've  told  her!"  he  echoed,  surprised  out  of  his  caution; 
and  the  smile  deepened  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes.  I  thought  as  a  medical  suggestion  it  might  be  more 
acceptable.  She  was  very  sweet  about  it  —  very  brave  — 

"Thank  you  —  thank  you  —  I'll  go  up  to  her,"  Derek  mut 
tered,  quite  overcome,  and  plunged  into  the  house. 

Jack  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  empty  doorway.  "Poor  old 
Dirks!"  he  said.  "I  can't  make  him  out.  Something  wrong 
—  somewhere." 

"The  chief  wrong,"  said  his  sister  quietly,  "is  that  —  she's 
utterly  unfit.  —  He  ought  not  to  have  married  her." 

"Oh,  I  say  —  hard  lines.    A  very  stern  Gay!" 

"Over  some  things  —  yes."  But  her  eyes  were  more  indul 
gent  than  her  tone.  They  were  remarkable  eyes,  under  brows 
that  had  the  clear  sweep  of  a  bird's  wing.  They  had  tried  in 
turn  to  be  blue  and  green  and  brown;  and  had  finally  compro 
mized  in  an  iridescent  mingling  of  all  three.  "Of  course  it's 
bitter  hard  lines;  but  that  doesn't  affect  the  right  and  wrong  of 
it.  And  your  Derek  is  evidently  a  man  of  character,  which 
puzzles  one  the  more.  Of  course  —  one  understands  the  temp 
tation.  She's  a  sweet  creature,  if  not  very  much  else  — " 

And  upstairs  Derek  found  the  'sweet  creature'  propped 
among  her  pillowrs  with  a  red-gold  plait  over  each  shoulder;  a 
little  languid,  but  surprisingly  acquiescent  in  view  of  her  out 
burst  the  night  before.  He  was  too  thankful  for  the  change 
to  worry  about  the  how  or  why  of  it. 

"Are  you  pleased  with  the  plan,  Deny?"  she  asked,  smiling, 
a  wistful  note  in  her  voice. 

"Well  ...  I  want  to  do  whatever's  best  for  you,  little  girl," 
he  said  truthfully.  "You  know  that." 


INTO  THE  DEEP  207 

"Yes,  I  know  that."  A  very  small  sigh  escaped  her.  "And 
I'll  be  all  right.  She's  just  sweet  to  me  —  Miss  de  Vigne. 
She  says  it's  my  best  chance  —  keeping  very  quiet.  I  s'pose 
—  it  wasn't  —  you?  " 

"Me?  Of  course  not!"  His  astonishment  rang  true. 
"D'you  think  I'd  run  away  from  you  because  you're  ill?" 

"No.  But  .  .  .  you  might  ..."  She  caught  his  hand  and 
pressed  it  against  her  face.  "I  do  try  an'  not  be  a  fool  Lois  — 
about  things  — 

"You're  a  very  brave  Lois.  Miss  de  Vigne  said  so,"  he  told 
her;  and  her  eyes  lightened.  She  dearly  loved  a  compliment; 
and  more  than  ever,  after  that,  she  loved  Gabrielle  de  Vigne. 

An  hour  later  the  two  men  were  dismissed  with  Gabrielle's 
blessing;  knapsacks  on  their  shoulders  and  deep  content  in 
their  hearts.  Her  instructions  were  that  they  should  take  the 
train  to  Sydney,  whence  they  could  push  on,  afoot,  into  the 
wilder  parts  of  the  Island.  And  they  were  not  wanted  back 
till  Saturday. 

Derek  said  little;  but  he  could  scarcely  believe  in  his  good 
fortune,  even  when  they  were  settled  opposite  each  other  in  the 
brisk  little  train,  rolling  through  miles  of  fair  and  open  country, 
and  discussing  Home  telegrams  that  revealed  a  horizon  dark 
with  the  threat  of  war.  By  the  time  they  had  lunched  in 
Sydney's  one  hotel,  and  cruised  among  beautiful  islands  and 
had  decided  which  one  they  would  annex  wrhen  the  great  mo 
ment  came,  Derek  had  shed  his  scepticism  and  basked  in  the 
sun  of  Jack's  unblushing  triumph. 

Later  still,  when  they  left  Sydney  and  plunged  into  the  wilds, 
the  immediate  past  —  Australia,  Canada,  Lois  —  fell  away  from 
him.  For  a  blessed  while  he  recaptured  the  irresponsible  free 
dom  of  Oxford  days.  All  trace  of  languor  vanished  from  body 
and  brain.  Simply  and  gratefully  he  took  with  both  hands  the 
good  hour  given  him  by  the  gods  and  Gabrielle  de  Vigne  .  .  . 

In  the  light  —  and  dark  —  of  after  events,  those  three  un 
clouded  days  shone  in  his  memory  like  stars  that  the  years 
quench  not. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Our  acts  our  angels  are,  for  good  or  ill, 
Our  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still. 

SHAKESPEARE 

AND  at  Silversands,  Lois  was  doing  some  close  thinking  on  her 
own  account.  Not  for  a  moment  did  she  doubt  that  Derek 
had  gone  at  Gay's  suggestion ;  neither  did  she  doubt  that  he  had 
gone  willingly.  Too  honest  to  make  insincere  protestations, 
he  had  taken  refuge  in  silence  and  affectionate  generalities  — 
not  for  the  first  time. 

During  their  trip,  she  had  tried  to  accept  his  odd  silences  as 
part  of  his  general  oddness  —  in  certain  things.  Now  she  be 
gan  to  suspect  their  true  nature.  He  still  did  not  care  'that 
way';  and  if  she  could  not,  by  some  means,  make  him  care, 
there  was  little  use  in  being  his  wife.  And  wives  did  —  She 
had  read  of  them  in  novels.  She  was  reading  one  now,  in 
which  the  husband  was  Derek;  the  wife,  herself;  and  jealousy 
the  key  with  which  she  unlocked  his  heart.  Derek  had  said 
he  was  not  given  that  way;  and  if  she  could  only  rouse  him  — 
what  a  triumph!  She  herself  was  feeling  distinctly  jealous  of 
Jack;  and  her  childish  plan  was  to  turn  the  tables  by  being  a 
shade  less  accessible  to  Derek  and  particularly  pleasant  to  his 
friend.  She  had  not  wit  enough  to  perceive  that  she  was 
scheming  to  make  the  whole  situation  ten  times  harder  for  him: 
so  urgent  was  her  craving  for  his  love,  for  the  comfortable  as 
surance  that  he  knew  and  forgave  all. 

So,  in  secret,  she  hugged  her  cherished  dream;  and  wondered 
—  would  he  perhaps  come  home  sooner  than  he  had  said? 

He  did  not  come  home  sooner;  in  fact  not  till  tea-time  on 
Saturday.  It  had  been  a  weary  morning;  the  two  women  im- 


INTO  THE  DEEP  209 

mersed  in  newspapers,  talking  anxiously  and  rapidly  in  French. 
Some  big  trouble  was  looming  in  Europe,  Lois  gathered.  But 
she  asked  no  questions.  What  was  Europe  to  her  or  she  to 
Europe?  Derek  was  coming  home;  and  she  was  going  to  make 
him  love  her  as  husbands  loved  wives  in  books.  She  hoped 
the  arrival  of  the  men  would  check  this  everlasting  talk  about 
countries  that,  for  her,  were  mere  names  on  a  map;  though 
Gabrielle  and  her  aunt  —  when  they  happened  to  talk  English 
—  spoke  of  them  as  if  they  were  female  relations.  But  Derek 
and  Jack  brought  more  papers  and  talked  in  the  same  queer, 
personal  fashion  of  Russia  and  Belgium  and  France;  and  of 
Germany  being  "out  to  smash  Europe"  —  as  if  Europe  was  a 
tea-set! 

Derek  greeted  her  with  his  friendliest  smile  and  pressed  the 
hand  that  hung  nearest  him.  "You  look  awfully  well,"  he 
said.  "Quite  a  good  prescription  getting  rid  of  me!" 

"It  wasn't  through  getting  rid  of  you,"  she  murmured  re 
proachfully;  and  Jack,  who  was  reading  snatches  from  his 
paper,  broke  in:  "Just  what  you  said,  Dirks.  A  gamble  on 
the  great  scale.  War  on  two  fronts — " 

"All  the  better,"  said  Derek  grimly.  "She  signs  her  death 
warrant.  But  Russia  will  take  weeks  to  mobilize." 

"And  the  notion  is,  while  she's  rubbing  her  eyes,  Germany 
will  just  march  to  Paris  and  back  — 

" Mon  Dieu,  non!"  Madame  de  Fontenac's  low  voice  was 
charged  with  passionate  protest.  "In  Paris  again  —  les  sales 
Boches  —  les  cochons  —  never!  I  was  there  in  '70.  A  child: 
but  —  but  one  remembers.  Pas  possible!  The  good  God  is 
above;  and  below  —  there  are  a  few  French  soldiers." 

"Also  a  handful  of  British  ones,"  Derek  said  quietly.  "If 
our  great  and  warlike  Government  permits." 

"You  doubt  if  England  will  stand  by  France!" 

It  was  Gabrielle  this  time;  her  voice  quiet  as  his  own;  but  a 
gleam  in  her  eyes  made  the  orange  flecks  in  them  seem  like 
sparks  of  fire. 

"It's  not  England  I  doubt,  but  her  present  Government. 
I  believe  it  will  be  touch  and  go  — : 


210  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"'Go'  for  choice!"  remarked  the  irrepressible  Jack.  "In 
that  case  I  scoot  back  and  clamour  for  a  commission.  I'm 
pretty  well  qualified  — 

Suddenly  he  glanced  at  Derek's  face  —  and  said  no  more. 

To  Lois  their  talk  conveyed  little  or  nothing;  but  she  re 
frained  from  worrying  them  with  questions;  partly  because  she 
was  not  much  interested,  partly  because  she  did  not  want  to 
shame  Derek  by  revealing  her  ignorance  to  his  friends.  Only 
one  concrete  fact  emerged.  Jack  was  going  to  '  scoot  back  and 
clamour  for  a  commission.'  But  the  connection  escaped  her. 
A  commission  had  something  to  do  with  a  '  deal. '  That  wTas  all 
she  knew  about  it;  and  her  sole  concern  was  lest  Jack  should 
'  scoot '  before  he  had  served  her  secret  purpose. 

After  tea,  when  she  had  lured  Derek  into  the  garden,  she 
ventured  a  question  or  two. 

"Did  Jack  mean  —  is  he  going  back  to  England  because  of 
all  this  —  whatever  it  is?" 

Derek  frowned.     "Yes,  of  course  —  if  we  fight." 

"Who  is  'we'?"  she  pressed  him,  suddenly  alarmed  lest  he 
be  implicated  also. 

"England  —  the  British  Empire  that  Germany  is  out  to 
destroy." 

"Oh  —  I  see."  A  pause.  She  was  as  much  in  the  dark  as 
ever.  "Would  that  make  a  lot  of  difference  —  over  here?" 

"A  middling  amount!  D'you  happen  to  realize,  Lois,  that 
you  are  living  in  the  British  Empire?" 

She  glanced  at  him  to  see  if  he  intended  a  joke.  "I  thought 
I  was  living  in  Canada  —  B.C., "  she  said. 

"And  you  didn't  know  that  the  two  are  parts  of  one  big 
thing,  just  as  your  arm  is  a  part  of  your  body?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I'm  afraid  I  seem  —  to  all  of  you  — 
a  proper  fool.  But  —  after  Father  died,  I  didn't  get  —  much 
education  — 

That  pathetic  confession  and  the  break  in  her  voice  moved 
him  to  put  an  arm  round  her.  "Don't  worry  about  that, 
dear,"  he  said,  patting  her  shoulder  his  hand  rested  on.  "I'll 
teach  you  no  end  in  the  evenings,  once  we've  settled  down. 


INTO  THE  DEEP  211 

We'll  all  need  to  rub  up  our  geography  if  this  conflagration 
spreads — 

But  she  scarcely  heeded  his  words.  His  caress,  his  brotherly 
kindness,  in  place  of  the  husband's  greeting  she  craved,  let 
loose  a  flood  of  emotion  that  swept  away  her  poor  little  plans 
for  conquest  — 

Without  a  shadow  of  warning  she  flung  her  arms  round  him 
and  kissed  him  passionately. 

"Oh,  Derek,  darling,"  she  said,  leaning  her  whole  light  weight 
against  him.  "  It's  real  good  having  you  home  again.  You  are 
just  a  mite  glad,  too  —  aren't  you?  " 

Derek  —  taken  aback  and  genuinely  stirred  by  her  passion  — 
could  only  tighten  his  hold  and  let  her  glean  what  assurance  she 
might  from  that.     "Don't  make  a  scene  over  it,  dear,"  he 
pleaded,  drawing  her  down  to  a  seat  screened  by  evergreens. 
"It's  this  kind  of  thing  upsets  you  so.     You're  simply  shaking." 

She  caught  her  breath  and  drew  away  a  little.  "  Yes  —  be 
cause  .  .  .  oh,  Deny  —  can't  you  see  —  it  ought  to  be  you  — 
not  me  — " 

"Of  course  it  ought,"  he  agreed  with  smothered  vehemence. 
"That's  the  curse  of  the  whole  situation  —  for  us  both.  At 
least  I've  been  straight  with  you,  Lois.  I've  never  pretended— 

"I  don't  want  you  to  pretend!"  she  flung  in,  with  flaming 
cheeks.  "But  haven't  you  —  won't  you  ever  —  " 

"Oh,  my  dear  —  why  torment  yourself  and  me?  I'm  doing 
my  best;  and  I'll  go  on  doing  it.  Can't  you  leave  it  at  that? 
Can't  you  see  I'm  worried  to  death  about  this  big  business  at 
Home  that  dwarfs  all  our  petty  personal  affairs  — ?" 

He  broke  off  there;  for  she  suddenly  sprang  up  and  left  him, 
with  never  a  word  or  a  backward  look. 

Half  relieved  and  wholly  puzzled,  he  sat  watching  her,  till 
she  vanished  into  the  house.  He  was  sincerely  sorry  it  he  had 
hurt  her,  but  he  could  not  feel  sorry  that,  for  once,  the  truth 
had  been  spoken  between  them.  It  might  help  to  clear  the 
air. 

Then,  with  a  great  sigh,  he  rose  and  paced  the  far  end  of  the 
lawn;  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  in  the  hope  that  mechanical  move- 


212  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

ment  might  quiet  the  tumult  in  his  brain.  Controlled  by  tem 
perament  and  training,  it  needed  a  strong  wind  to  stir  his  deeper 
emotions;  but  to-day,  in  this  tremendous  hour  of  crisis,  the  in 
tensity  of  his  love  for  England  and  for  Avonleigh  burned  with 
a  white  flame  that  blinded  him  to  all  lesser  matters,  as  he  had 
tried  to  make  Lois  understand.  England  must  fight  .  .  .  ! 
If  a  temporizing  Government  dared  withhold  her,  the  spirits 
of  her  great  dead  would  rise  up  in  protest.  Yes  —  England 
would  fight:  and  he,  Derek  Blount  —  an  insignificant  unit 
among  her  millions  of  loyal  sons  —  must  remain  where  he  was; 
chained  hand  and  foot  by  his  own  act.  It  was  the  culminat 
ing  stroke  of  Fate  — 

Lois,  watching  from  her  bedroom  window,  wondered  fruit 
lessly  what  were  the  thoughts  that  goaded  him  to  walk  up  and 
down,  up  and  down.  She  had  never  seen  him  taken  that  way 
before;  and  it  gave  her,  for  the  first  time,  a  feeling  of  mother 
tenderness  towards  him.  She  wanted  to  comfort  him,  to  ease 
his  restlessness,  as  he  so  often  eased  hers.  What  was  wrong 
with  her  that  she  could  not  make  him  care?  Jack  wras  her  last 
hope. 

But  Jack  —  though  friendly  and  charming  —  proved  nearly 
as  bad  as  the  rest.  His  eyes  had  the  same  look  of  preoccupied 
anxiety,  as  day  followed  day,  without  any  relief  from  the  ten 
sion  that  made  ordinary  talk  and  ordinary  thought  a  sheer 
impossibility. 

German  troops  in  Belgium  and  in  France;  and  still  no  decisive 
word  from  England  — !  They  began  to  be  aware  that  Madame 
de  Fontenac  thought  a  good  deal  more  than  her  French  polite 
ness  would  allow  her  to  say:  and  they  chafed  under  the  justice 
of  those  unspoken  criticisms. 

And  Lois — isolated  from  them  all  by  a  chasm  of  ignorance — 
felt  half  bewildered,  half  aggrieved  at  this  disconcerting  turn  of 
events.  Even  when  Derek  came  out  of  the  clouds  and  talked 
to  her,  his  mind  seemed  half  astray;  and  the  failure  of  her  pas 
sionate  outburst  withheld  her  from  repeating  that  form  of 
appeal.  A  world  cataclysm  had  crushed  her  poor  little  plan. 
It  was  as  if  a  traction  engine  had  passed  over  a  butterfly. 


INTO  THE  DEEP  213 

At  last,  one  morning,  she  came  down  to  breakfast  more 
glaringly  late  than  usual  —  and  behold,  a  changed  atmosphere! 
Even  she  could  feel  the  tingle  of  excitement  in  the  air. 

The  paper  had  arrived.  Derek  was  reading  out  the  telegrams. 
" That  settles  it  —  thank  God!"  he  concluded  fervently. 

"Hope  we  go  in  with  both  feet,"  said  Jack.  "No  mere  naval 
demonstration." 

"Not  likely  —  if  we  get  Kitchener." 

"And  we  don't  any  of  us  realize,  in  the  minutest  degree, 
what  it  all  means,"  Gay  murmured,  thoughtfully,  stirring  her 
tea  .  .  . 

After  breakfast,  the  air  being  clearer,  Lois  begged  Derek  to 
explain  what  it  did  mean,  so  that  she  could  understand;  and  he 
explained  to  the  best  of  his  power.  A  good  deal  still  passed 
over  her  head;  but  she  pounced  on  one  concrete  fact. 

"Jack  said  he  must  go  home  at  once.     Has  he  got  to  fight?" 

"Naturally  —  when  he's  been  trained.  The  British  Army's 
magnificent  —  what  there  is  of  it ;  but  if  we  're  to  lick  Germany, 
we'll  need  every  available  man  in  the  Empire." 

"Oh  —  She  had  pounced  on  another  concrete  fact.  " Deny 
—  are  you  an  available  man?" 

"No  — I'm  not." 

"Are  you  —  wishing  it?"  she  ventured,  very  low. 

"  Wishing's  neither  here  nor  there,"  he  said  briskly.  "Don't 
worry  your  head  about  that,  little  girl." 

To  his  intense  relief  she  merely  gave  his  arm  a  convulsive 
squeeze  and  said  no  more. 

Jack  himself  broached  the  subject  on  the  veranda  after 
dinner.  The  thing  had  to  be  gone  through;  and  Derek  was 
glad  to  get  it  over.  It  came  after  Jack  had  unfolded  his  own 
plans  in  a  quiet  business-like  voice,  assumed  out  of  considera 
tion  for  Derek,  who  could  make  none.  But  at  the  last  his 
natural  self  prevailed. 

"Oh,  Dirks,  old  man,"  he  broke  out  desperately,  "it's  the 
very  deuce  leaving  you  stuck  out  here.  If  we  could  only  go 
into  this  together !  Think  of  it ! " 

Derek  frowned  and  looked  straight  before  him  into  the 


214  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

gathering  dusk.  "Thanks  —  I'd  rather  not  think  of  it.  I 
can't  leave  Lois  —  so  that's  that." 

Jack  considered  Derek's  unpromising  profile.  Then  he  re 
marked  tentatively:  "Shoals  of  married  men  will  join  — 

"Not  with  wives  in  her  precarious  state  of  health  and  no 
responsible  belongings." 

"But,  Derek,  she's  an  awfully  sweet  person.  Couldn't  you 
bring  her  home?" 

"And  leave  her  —  with  whom?"  Derek  could  not  keep  the 
bitter  note  out  of  his  voice.  "She  is  —  a  sweet  person.  But 
picture  her  —  with  Mother  —  Ina  —  Van?  " 

"But  —  if  they  don't  know  you're  married,  they'll  be  ex 
pecting  you  to  turn  up." 

"I  shall  write  to  Father,  of  course."  A  pause;  then  he  added 
gruffly:  "Drop  it,  Jacko!  Stick  to  your  own  affairs.  Won't 
your  sister  go  with  you?" 

"No.  She  can't  come  yet  because  of  her  aunt.  But  the 
minute  she's  free  she'll  be  off  —  Red  Cross  in  France,  I  gather. 
Somehow  I  never  seemed  to  realize  her  Frenchness  till  just 
lately.  You  stop  on,  anyway,  till  I'm  off,  Dirks.  We'll  go 
along  together  as  far  as  the  Fates  allow." 

And  to  that  last  Derek  assented  willingly  enough. 


CHAPTER  X 

Life  is  at  her  grindstone  set, 
That  she  may  give  us  edging  keen. 
Sting  us  for  battle;  till,  as  play, 
The  common  strokes  of  fortune  shower. 

MEREDITH 

THREE  weeks  later,  he  and  Lois  sat  at  supper  in  the  veranda  of 
their  own  home.  It  was  a  still,  oppressive  evening,  the  last 
of  August;  and  in  Nealston  there  was  nothing  to  distinguish  this 
particular  day  from  any  other  of  that  heroic  and  terrible  first 
month  of  war. 

Yet  away  on  the  other  side  of  the  world,  in  an  apple  orchard 
near  Nery,  a  certain  British  battery  was  carrying  on  a  prepos 
terous  duel  —  three  guns  against  twelve  —  that  will  live  for 
ever  in  the  annals  of  history  and  romance.  On  this  day,  too, 
the  Channel  ports  lay  open  and  defenceless,  awaiting  the  in 
flux  of  German  hordes  —  that  never  came. 

The  shadow  of  that  dark  month  was  on  Derek's  heart  and  in 
his  eyes.  He  had  almost  grown  to  hate  the  superb  serenity  of 
lake  and  mountain  that  so  mockingly  contrasted  with  his  inner 
vision  of  battered,  pursued,  undaunted  flesh  and  blood.  Only 
a  miracle  could  now  save  Paris;  and  Derek  foolishly  supposed 
the  age  of  miracles  was  past.  His  faith  in  things  not  seen  — 
so  far  as  it  had  survived  the  shocks  of  early  doubt  —  was  too 
nebulous  to  uphold  him  in  this  hour  of  awful  uncertainty. 
Nor  was  he  sustained  by  the  optimist's  innate  conviction  that 
the  worst  can  never  happen.  He  knew  very  well  that  the 
worst  could  happen.  It  might  be  happening  even  now;  while 
he,  in  another  hemisphere,  was  savouring  the  salmi  of  his 
talented  Chinese  cook.  One  had  frankly  to  face  the  appalling 
fact.  But  where  faith  falters,  there  is  the  greater  need  of 
courage;  and  courage,  like  wisdom,  is  justified  of  her  children. 


2i6  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

As  for  Lois,  she  could  not,  in  the  nature  of  her,  realize  the 
half  of  what  he  was  suffering  in  his  dumb,  lonely  fashion.  Un- 
perceptive  by  nature,  she  was  further  blinded  by  the  fulfilment 
of  her  twin  desires  —  a  man  and  a  home  of  her  own.  The 
little  house  was  her  new  toy;  and  she  insisted  that  he  should  be 
interested  too.  He  was  called  upon  to  make  up  her  mind  for 
her  about  every  conceivable  item,  from  the  pattern  of  a  curtain 
to  the  shape  of  a  vase.  In  his  free  hours,  he  must  take  her  to 
'  movies '  —  the  more  glaringly  melodramatic  the  better  —  or 
follow  her  endlessly  from  shop  to  shop.  He  was  infinitely 
patient  with  her  vagaries;  and  she,  by  way  of  reward,  idealized 
him  in  the  very  manner  he  could  least  endure.  Distracted 
with  anxiety,  there  was  neither  peace  nor  refreshment  for  him 
within  the  four  walls  of  his  home  — 

The  place  itself  was  pretty  and  pleasant  enough,  set  well 
above  the  town  that  climbed  the  skirts  of  the  mountain;  its 
houses  rising  tier  beyond  tier,  like  the  seats  of  an  amphitheatre. 
He  owed  the  discovery  mainly  to  Mrs.  Macrae.  She  was  also 
responsible  for  their  'help';  a  motherly  widow- woman,  with 
out  whose  ministration  there  would  have  been  little  of  comfort 
or  tidiness  in  the  house  —  and  Derek  appreciated  both.  The 
cook  had  been  his  own  find;  and  he  was  not  above  admitting 
that  the  man's  skill  helped,  considerably,  to  oil  the  wheels  of 
things. 

Soon  after  leaving  Victoria,  he  had  written  that  difficult 
letter  to  his  father  which  told  very  little,  yet  implied  much  to 
any  one  who  really  knew  him.  The  extenuating  circumstances, 
he  pleaded,  were  not  altogether  his  own  to  reveal.  He  had  done 
his  best  to  give  a  favourable  impression  of  Lois ;  had  dwelt  upon 
her  youth,  her  precarious  state,  and  his  own  conviction  that,  as 
matters  stood,  he  could  not  leave  her  while  she  had  need  of  him. 

I  think  [he  had  concluded]  that  you  will  understand  —  though 
I  express  myself  vilely  —  how  I  hate  having  to  give  you  such  news; 
and  how  badly  it  hurts  not  being  able  to  go  straight  home  and  join 
Kitchener's  Army.  I've  tried  to  write  to  Mother  about  it,  but  I've 
only  succeeded  in  half  filling  the  waste-paper  basket.  If  you  think 
she  ought  to  know  —  and  Van  —  will  you  please  tell  them  whatever 


INTO  THE  DEEP  217 

you  think  fit.  One  will  be  misjudged  on  all  sides  —  that's  the  curse 
of  it.  But  so  long  as  I  stand  square  with  you,  I  can  put  up  with  the 
rest.  Make  a  few  allowances  —  if  you  know  how  —  for  your  'faith 
ful  failure,'  who  hardly  deserves  the  honour  to  be 

Your  loving  son 

DEREK  BLOUNT 

It  had  been  an  unspeakable  relief  to  get  that  letter  off  his 
mind.  He  could  not  expect  an  answer  for  weeks;  and  even 
while  he  craved  it,  he  dreaded  the  sting  of  sarcasm  that  his 
seeming  folly  could  scarcely  fail  to  evoke. 

Meantime,  there  had  been  the  strenuous  business  of  settling 
Lois  into  her  new  home;  and  her  childish  delight  in  it  all  was  his 
reward.  With  the  incurable  hopefulness  of  her  kind,  she  lived 
from  day  to  day:  while  Derek's  more  imaginative  brain  was 
haunted  by  the  ghostly,  inexorable  shadow  that  mocked  at 
her  content.  For  himself,  mere  use  and  wont  eased,  a  little, 
the  sense  of  enchainment  that  still  irked  him  badly  at  times. 
Between  companioning  Lois,  and  working  on  another  fruit 
ranch,  he  had  little  leisure  to  call  his  own;  and  he  grew  genuinely 
fond  of  her  —  up  to  a  point.  He  might  have  grown  fonder  still, 
but  that  under  her  sensuous  softness  and  sweetness  he  found 
a  vacuum;  and  the  trail  of  the  third-rate  fiction  she  devoured 
was  over  all  her  thoughts  and  ways. 

Their  veranda,  that  was  smothered  in  clematis  and  ramblers, 
framed  incomparable  visions  of  the  higher  reaches  of  the  Lake; 
and  Lois,  in  a  clinging  blue  tea-gown  and  a  flowered  scarf, 
completed  a  domestic  picture  charming  enough  to  satisfy 
any  man  whose  mind  was  not  racked  with  the  craving  to  be 
elsewhere. 

Of  late  she  had  been  fretful  and  irritable,  which  was  unlike 
her;  and  broken  nights  had  laid  dark  smudges  under  her  eyes. 
But  her  trouble  was  not  purely  physical.  She  was  beginning 
to  worry  about  Derek.  The  steady  exodus  of  young  men  from 
the  ranches  and  the  town  impressed  her  more  than  any  tele 
grams  in  the  paper:  and  now  there  crept  into  her  heart  a  little 
gnawing  fear  that  perhaps  Derek  really  was  'available.'  That 


2i8  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

fear  had  been  urging  her  to  speak  out  and  urge  him  to  go,  if  he 

wanted  to  —  if  he  ought. 

She  was  just  screwing  up  her  courage,  \vhen  he  rose  abruptly 

and  went  over  to  the  end  of  the  veranda.     It  was  a  boy  with  a 

cablegram.     Derek  stood  silent  so  long  that  she  grew  nervous. 
"Darling,  what  is  it?"  she  asked.     "Bad  news?" 
"Not  exactly!"  he  said  with  his  whimsical  smile.     "From 

my  father.     Family  affairs."    And  his  eyes  reverted  to  the 

flimsy  slip  of  paper  in  his  hands. 

Yours  received.  Deeply  deplore  circumstances  but  approve  your 
decision.  AVONLEIGH 

The  idea  that  his  father  might  cable  had  never  occurred  to 
him :  and  the  act  implied  a  measure  of  understanding,  where  he 
had  expected  none.  It  also  made  the  task  of  hanging  onto  his 
job  a  shade  less  difficult. 

Within  a  week  there  came  a  rift  in  the  war  cloud;  and  his 
doubting  spirit  stood  rebuked.  The  miracle  had  happened: 
Paris  had  been  saved.  In  the  midst  of  his  incredible  relief,  he 
remembered  Gabrielle  and  Madame  de  Fontenac,  whose  faith 
was  founded  on  a  rock.  He  wondered  if  they  were  still  at  Sil- 
versands.  Gay  had  written  affectionately  to  Lois  soon  after 
£hey  left.  Since  then,  they  had  heard  no  more.  But  later  on 
came  news  of  Jack  —  who  had  got  his  cavalry  commission  — 
and  a  long  screed  from  Mark;  'in  it,'  of  course,  up  to  the  eyes. 

The  bewildering  news  of  his  engagement  troubled  Derek  pro 
foundly.  Like  every  one  else,  he  had  taken  Sheila  for  granted 
—  one  of  the  few  girls  he  heartily  admired.  Yet  Mark  — 
judging  from  his  letter  —  was  pretty  badly  smitten.  He  won 
dered  sometimes  —  had  that  faculty  been  quite  left  out  of  his 
composition?  And  he  rated  himself  for  a  cold-blooded  beast. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  War,  with  its  vast  and  appalling  pos 
sibilities,  was  absorbing  all  his  capacity  for  emotion.  England 
—  though  he  criticized  her  and  never  talked  patriotism  —  was 
dearer  to  him,  as  yet,  than  any  woman.  And  England  was 
fighting  for  her  life.  Derek  had  no  illusions  on  that  score. 
Though  he  could  not  rhapsodize,  he  could  serve.  He  was  of 


INTO  THE   DEEP  219 

those  for  whom  work  is  prayer;  and  a  perverse  Fate  condemned 
him  to  idleness;  while  his  logging  companions  and  all  the  lucky 
devils  at  home  were,  at  least,  doing  what  they  could  to  stiffen 
England's  sword  arm.  Only  his  innate  sense  of  proportion 
steadied  him,  as  always,  in  the  day  of  trouble.  England,  it 
reminded  him,  could  hold  her  own  without  his  microscopic 
assistance.  Still  —  it  takes  the  individual  to  make  the  mass, 
the  atom  to  make  the  sphere:  and  this  atom  could  not  but 
chafe  at  its  exclusion  from  the  field  of  honour. 

He  chafed  still  more  when  the  thrill  of  pursuit  was  definitely 
checked,  when  Antwerp  fell  and  the  Ypres  salient  was  born. 
A  pencilled  scrawl  from  the  trenches  told  him  that  Mark  was  in 
the  thick  of  things;  and  Jack  was  either  going  or  had  already 
gone  .  .  . 

And  in  the  bungalow  on  the  hill  Lois  coughed  more  persist 
ently,  saw  him  grow  restless  again,  and  watched  the  shadow  of 
those  terrible  August  days  creep  back  into  his  eyes.  He  was 
kindness  itself  to  her.  He  would  take  her  to  the  pictures  or  for 
trips  on  the  Lake;  he  read  her  decent  literature  in  the  evenings. 
But  all  the  while  she  knew  that  his  mind  and  heart  were  miles 
away  —  on  the  blood-drenched  battle-fields  of  Flanders.  Yet 
she  could  not  bear  to  let  him  go.  Again  and  again  she  tried 
tactlessly,  unskilfully  —  to  say  what  she  felt,  to  discover  what 
he  really  thought  about  it;  and  always  he  laughed  it  off  or 
changed  the  subject. 

But  there  came  a  day  when,  in  spite  of  him,  she  fatally  in 
sisted  on  pressing  the  point. 

It  was  in  the  evening.  Too  cold  for  the  veranda  now;  and 
she  lay  in  her  long  chair  near  a  glowing  fire.  Derek  sat  beside 
her  with  a  book.  He  did  not  know  she  was  watching  him;  and 
he  remained  unnaturally  still  for  a  long  time,  without  turning  a 
page.  She  saw  that  his  spirit  had  slipped  away.  Only  the 
shell  of  him  sat  there  in  her  pretty  drawing-room,  because 
the  shell  of  him  was  obliged  to  stay  and  take  care  of  her.  Was 
he  pining  to  go  —  hating  her  because  she  held  him?  Last  time, 
when  she  talked  of  being  a  millstone,  he  had  got  quite  cross, 


220  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

but  to-night  she  felt  keyed  up  even  to  a  transient  mood  of 
heroism.  Her  true  motive,  though  she  knew  it  not,  was 
simply  to  stand  higher  in  his  esteem,  to  prove  herself  not  all 
unworthy. 

"Derek,"  she  asked  suddenly,  "what  are  you  thinking  about 
so  hard?" 

He  started  and  looked  round. 

" The  one  eternal  subject,"  he  said  truthfully.     "  What  else?  " 

She  sighed.  "It's  a  shame  you  should  be  saddled  with  a 
wife  who's  just  a  millstone  — " 

"Millstone?     Nonsense!    A  featherweight  like  you  — !" 

But  to-night  she  was  inexorable.  "Not  a  mite  of  use  to  joke 
it  off,  Deny.  It's  true.  And  there's  times  —  when  you  sit  so 
quiet  —  all  lost  ...  I  can't  help  but  wonder  are  you  wishing 
—  I  wasn't  there?" 

That  unexpected  question  fairly  took  his  breath  away.  "  My 
dear  Lois  —  you're  the  limit.  Nice  sort  of  husband  you  make 
me  out.  You  ought  to  know  me  better  by  now  — 

"Oh,  Deny,  I  do  —  But  all  the  time  I  can  feel  that  horrid 
war  tugging  you  away  from  me.  If  there  wasn't  me  .  .  . 
you'd  be  off  to-morrow  —  wouldn't  you?" 

The  tragedy  of  it,  and  the  tactless  futility  of  her  persistence, 
smote  him  silent. 

"There  —  you  see!"  Her  plaintive  voice  trailed  on,  taking 
silence  for  assent.  "And  if  you  really  did  ought  to  go,  it  makes 
me  get  wishing  —  almost  —  I  wasn't  here  — 

At  that  he  leaned  forward,  took  her  gently  by  the  shoulders, 
and  looked  so  straight  into  her  eyes  that  the  blood  surged  up 
to  the  hollows  of  her  temples. 

"  See  here,  little  girl  —  if  you  weren't  ill,  I'd  slang  you  with 
out  mercy.  Please  understand,  once  for  all,  that  you're  my 
job,  first  and  foremost:  and  if  I'm  not  kicking,  there's  no  call 
for  you  to  make  fancy  difficulties.  So  don't  let  me  hear  you 
talk  like  that  again  — " 

"But,  Deny— " 

"Oh,  let  be,  for  God's  sake.  —  Does  a  woman  never  know 
when  to  stop?"  But  she  looked  so  fragile,  as  the  flush  ebbed 


INTO  THE  DEEP  221 

from  her  face,  that  he  added  in  a  changed  voice:  "Now  —  kiss 
and  be  a  good  little  wife;  and  I'll  carry  you  to  bed." 

Without  a  word  she  lifted  her  face  and  they  kissed  mutually. 
Then  he  carried  her  to  bed. 

Next  day  she  was  subdued,  but  smiling;  a  little  withdrawn 
into  herself.  And  on  the  Wednesday  —  returning  from  work 
later  than  usual  —  he  found  an  empty  house.  Good  Mrs. 
O'Rane's  round  face  was  as  long  as  a  fiddle. 

"What's  the  matter?  Where's  Mrs.  Blount?"  he  asked 
sharply;  and  she  flung  up  her  hands. 

"The  dear  knows.  Ye'd  scarce  bin  gone  an  hour  when  she 
went  out  o'  that  door,  and  niver  a  sight  of  her  since  —  the 
saints  preserve  her!" 

Derek  had  a  strange  sensation,  as  if  his  heart  slowly  rose  up 
and  turned  over  within  him;  but  his  face  gave  no  sign. 

"Did  she  say  where  she  was  going?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice  so 
contained  that  his  'help'  ejaculated  mentally:  "The  stony 
hearted  they  are  —  these  English!" 

Aloud  she  said:  "'Just  a  thrifle  of  shopping  an'  a  walk,'  says 
she.  Her  that's  bought  all  a  woman  can  be  wanting,  an' 
more,  not  to  mention  she  had  a  bit  of  a  tempershaw  — " 

Derek  had  turned  on  his  heel  and  was  leaving  the  house; 
but  she  called  after  him  on  a  high  note  of  lamentation:  "Dear, 
oh,  dear,  sir,  there's  chops  and  taties  just  spoiling  for  you." 

"Eat  them  yourself,"  he  flung  back.  But  she  would  not  have 
it;  and  sooner  than  argue  he  bolted  the  food  without  tasting 
it.  Then  he  set  out  on  his  desperate  errand,  with  even  less  of  a 
clue  to  guide  him  than  on  that  strange,  unforgettable  night  of 
June  .  .  . 

Wild  possibilities  lurked  at  the  back  of  his  brain;  but  he  clung 
to  common  sense,  till  all  likely  coverts  had  been  beaten  without 
avail;  —  her  favourite  shops,  the  houses  of  her  few  friends. 
Then  fear  came  upon  him,  and  he  rang  up  Beulah  Ranch.  No 
news  of  her  there;  and  though  Mrs.  Macrae  spoke  hopefully, 
her  tone  belied  her  words. 


222  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Shall  I  come  over  to  you  by  the  evening  boat?"  she  con 
cluded.  "Or  will  I  only  be  in  the  way?" 

"Rather  not.  You'd  be  the  greatest  blessing  in  life.  —  I 
must  be  off  now  and  report  to  the  police.  So  long." 

The  head  of  the  local  police  force  wras  a  large  and  very  human 
person;  and  his  business-like  enquiries  were  tinged  with  dis 
creet  sympathy.  Derek  listened  gratefully  to  assurances  that 
searchers  wrould  be  sent  out  in  all  directions  and  they  would 
ring  him  up  the  moment  they  had  anything  to  report. 

After  that  there  was  no  more  to  be  done;  but,  goaded  by  sheer 
restlessness,  he  tramped  the  road  above  the  Lake  for  a  distance 
far  beyond  his  wife's  powrers  of  walking.  Then  he  sat  down  on 
a  rock  —  and  wild  possibilities  rushed  in  and  mocked  him  .  .  . 

At  one  moment  he  felt  half  angry  with  her;  and  the  next  his 
heart  contracted  at  thought  of  her  alone  and  frightened,  or  hurt. 
For  months  he  had  so  tenderly  guarded  her  that  she  seldom 
went  out  by  herself:  and  now  —  goodness  knew  what  folly  her 
cheap  instinct  for  the  theatrical  might  have  prompted  her  to 
attempt!  Was  ever  wroman  born  at  once  so  aggravating  and 
so  irresistibly  pathetic  ?  If  a  second  edition  existed,  he  had  no 
desire  to  encounter  it. 

It  was  late  when  he  reached  home,  tired  and  worried,  to 
find  that  a  cable  had  arrived  in  his  absence. 

He  tore  it  open  hurriedly  and  read: 

Mark  wounded  and  missing.  Feared  killed.  Taking  car  Belgium. 
Will  report  result.  MACNAIR 

Twice  over  he  scanned  the  hateful  message;  then  he  sat  very 
still,  realizing  it  all  ... 

Dearly  though  he  loved  Jack,  Mark  was  the  true  comrade  of 
his  spirit;  without  him,  the  salt  of  life  would  lose  half  its  savour. 
He  was  so  vividly,  commandingly  alive  that  Derek  could  not 
believe  in  his  extinction.  But  even  so  —  there  were  endless 
awiul  possibilities  .  .  . 

Into  the  midst  of  these  came  Wei  Sing's  gentle  reminder  that 
the  soup  was  getting  cold.  Then  he  roused  himself  and  remem 
bered  Lois  —  also  Mrs.  Macrae,  who  ought  to  be  here  by  now. 


INTO  THE  DEEP  223 

The  sound  of  hoofs  reassured  him,  and  as  he  stepped  into  the 
veranda  she  came  riding  up  the  path  —  a  queer,  semi-masculine 
figure  in  her  dungaree  divided  skirt  and  felt  hat.  Like  most  of 
her  kind,  she  rode  astride,  and  could  vault  into  a  saddle  or  out 
of  it  as  easily  as  a  man. 

"There  you  are,  thank  God!"  was  Derek's  greeting;  and  while 
he  unstrapped  her  bundle,  she  sprang  to  the  ground. 

"No  news?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Only  this  —  from  Home  —  my  best 
friend." 

He  handed  her  the  telegram;  and  when  she  looked  up  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes.  "Poor  Derry!  My  poor  boy  — 

Derek  said  nothing.  He  could  not  trust  himself.  But  he 
loved  her,  at  that  moment,  as  he  loved  Lady  Forsyth;  and  for 
the  same  quality.  Unmothered  as  he  was,  the  mother-need 
was  strong  in  him  still.  Some  men,  no  matter  how  self-reliant, 
never  lose  it  altogether. 

At  dinner  they  talked  only  of  Lois.  Things  began  to  look 
serious  and  Mrs.  Macrae  did  not  conceal  her  anxiety. 

"Had  she  bin  worried  any?"  was  her  first  question;  and 
Derek  explained,  adding  that  he  believed  he  had  dispelled  all 
that.  But  Mrs.  Macrae  looked  doubtful.  She  had  not  much 
opinion  of  a  man's  skill  in  dispelling  feminine  fancies.  "  Women 
in  her  state  get  queer  notions  —  do  queer  things,"  she  said,  with 
a  significant  look;  and  seemed  on  the  verge  of  some  confidential 
remark,  but  evidently  thought  better  of  it. 

After  dinner  they  rang  up  the  police  —  without  result.  Then 
they  paced  the  veranda,  guessing,  speculating,  talking  in  jerks, 
till  Airs.  Macrae,  in  her  wisdom,  insisted  that  he  should  go  to 
bed. 

"What's  the  damn  use?"  he  asked,  half  angrily.  "D'you 
suppose  I  can  sleep?" 

"You  can  lie  flat,  anyways,"  she  said  gently.  "Reckon 
you've  been  rampaging  around  all  day;  and  it  may  be  the 
same  to-morrow.  So  where's  the  sense  of  getting  tucked  up 
an'  wasting  shoe  leather  half  the  night?  You  git  fiat  an'  give 
yourself  a  chance." 


224  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Sooner  than  argue,  he  obeyed.  Anxiety  is  exhausting;  and 
to  anxiety  was  added  the  strain  of  conflicting  sensations  that  he 
was  doing  his  loyal  best  to  ignore  .  .  . 

"Not  now  —  not  this  way,"  was  the  honest  hope  of  his  heart. 
When  her  moment  came,  he  must  be  with  her,  if  only  to  ease  her 
fears.  Strange  how  she  haunted  him  —  her  listless  movements 
and  plaintive  voice  and  the  red-gold  glory  of  her  hair.  They 
had  not  been  four  months  married;  and  their  brief  union  had 
been  in  no  sense  intimate;  but  because  she  had  loved  truly,  up 
to  her  lights,  the  impress  she  left  upon  his  heart  was  genuine, 
if  not  deep.  Now  —  lost  and  strayed  —  she  was  no  longer 
the  wife  who  so  often  worried  him,  but  the  frightened  child, 
whose  pitiful  appeal  it  was  not  in  him  to  resist.  She  was  small. 
She  was  futile.  Her  capacity  for  love  was  mainly  a  blend 
of  passion  and  sentiment;  but  it  was  not  altogether  base 
metal.  She  had  lately  given  proof  of  that.  It  was,  he 
began  to  realize,  the  one  lever  that  might  conceivably  lift 
her  above  herself.  It  might  even  give  her  the  courage  she 
had  once  lacked  — 

In  his  heart  he  prayed  it  had  done  no  such  thing.  But 
where  on  earth  was  he  to  look  for  her  now  — •? 

Towards  morning  Nature  had  her  way  at  last;  and  he  fell 
sound  asleep. 

No  news  at  the  police  office  next  day;  and  Mrs.  Macr?e  was 
obliged,  reluctantly,  to  return  home  —  if  only  for  the  moment. 

"What'll  you  do  now?"  she  asked  at  parting. 

"Go  on  hunting  till  I  drop,"  he  answered  doggedly;  and  went 
back  to  the  house  to  think  things  out. 

There,  on  the  dining-room  table,  a  telegraphic  envelope  lay 
awaiting  him.  As  he  snatched  it  up,  all  the  sensations  of 
yesterday  surged  through  him :  —  and  when  he  opened  it,  anti 
climax  was  complete. 

It  came  from  a  hotel  in  Victoria,  and  it  ran : 

I  was  going  right  off  to  give  you  a  chance,  but  Gay  has  left  here, 
so  no  use.  I  am  ill.  Please  come.  So  sorry.  Lois 


INTO  THE   DEEP  225 

In  the  confusion  of  his  mixed  emotions,  relief  predominated 
—  relief  tinged  with  vexation :  but  vexation  was  shamed  at 
thought  of  all  she  had  risked  in  her  genuine,  if  futile,  attempt 
to  clear  the  way  for  him.  So  like  Lois  —  not  even  to  find  out 
if  they  were  there.  And  he  himself  had  never  once  thought  of 
the  railway  station!  He  would  not  have  given  her  credit  for 
so  bold  a  stroke.  But  now,  at  all  events,  there  was  something 
definite  to  be  done. 


CHAPTER  XI 

For  she  loved  much  .  .  . 

ST.  LUKE  VTI,  47 

HE  found  her  almost  in  a  state  of  collapse.  She  wept  and  clung 
to  him  and  implored  his  forgiveness;  and  he,  remembering  the 
thought  of  his  heart,  kissed  her  with  a  fervour  that  surprised 
and  uplifted  her.  Then  he  scolded  her  sternly  for  her  own 
good.  The  scolding  passed  clean  over  her  head;  but  the  treas 
ured  memory  of  that  kiss,  given  when  she  least  deserved  it, 
atoned  for  all  she  had  been  through.  She  was  scarce  fit  to 
travel;  and  the  return  journey  was  an  ordeal  Derek  would  not 
soon  forget.  Only  by  a  miracle  did  he  get  her  home  in  time. 

For  more  than  a  week  she  hung  between  life  and  death.  For 
more  than  a  week  life  itself  was  a  mere  appendage  to  illness  — 
doctor  and  nurses,  and  Lois  talking  fitfully  in  a  voice  that  was 
not  her  own.  Once  he  heard  her  speak  of  Jos,  whose  existence 
he  had  almost  forgotten  in  the  stress  of  recent  events. 

And  while  invisible  forces  wrestled  for  possession  of  her 
fragile  body,  he  worked  full  time  at  the  Ranch.  For  he  had 
need  of  regular  occupation  to  ease  his  distraction  of  mind.  He 
felt,  in  a  measure,  responsible  for  her  sufferings;  and  it  hurt 
him  keenly.  There  was  also  the  ache  of  anxiety  about  Mark: 
and  the  subconscious  knowledge  that  her  death  would  mean 
freedom  to  spend  himself  for  England,  his  greater  love  .  .  . 

But,  as  that  strange  hushed  week  drew  to  an  end,  it  began  to 
look  as  if  she  wrould  weather  the  storm. 

The  doctor  had  spoken  more  hopefully  that  morning;  and  in 
the  evening  when  Derek  returned,  the  day-nurse  told  him  that 
the  patient  had  fallen  into  a  deep  natural  sleep.  If  that  sleep 
lasted  —  all  might  yet  be  well.  Mrs.  Macrae  was  in  the  sick 
room.  She  would  come  and  see  him  later  on. 


INTO  THE  DEEP  227 

Derek  thanked  her  formally  and  passed  into  his  little  book- 
filled  study,  where  he  found  mail  letters:  Jack,  Mark  —  he 
would  not  have  believed  the  sight  of  Mark's  writing  could  ever 
give  him  pain  —  and  the  long-delayed  latter  from  his  father. 

He  tore  it  open  hastily,  prepared  for  the  worst.  Lord  Avon- 
leigh  \\-rote: 

MY  DEAR  BOY, — 

It  was  lucky  I  wired,  as  my  promised  letter  was  held  up  by  a  bout 
of  fever  and  a  touch  of  internal  inflammation.  Nothing  to  make  a 
long  tale  about.  I  would  not  let  Aunt  Marion  worry  you  needlessly. 
Your  present  position  must  be  quite  sufficiently  distracting.  I 
hope  the  wire  eased  your  mind  somewhat.  But  I  frankly  confess 
your  news  was  a  shock  to  us  both.  A  mere  scrape  of  the  average 
variety  would  have  been  less  disquieting.  But  on  reflection  I  have 
the  grace  to  be  thankful  it  is  otherwise.  I  am  glad  you  mentioned 
her  age.  It  puts  a  good  many  disagreeable  suppositions  out  of  court. 
And  I  venture  to  hope  she  is  attractive.  It  may  ease  things  for  you. 

You  are  right  about  Mother.  If  explanatory  facts  were  piled  as 
high  as  Nelson's  Column,  she  could  neither  understand  nor  condone 
such  a  flagrant  departure  from  the  normal.  I  am  telling  her  and 
Van  that  you  are  keen  to  join  the  Army,  but  you  are  unfortunately 
tied  up  and  will  be  coming  home  the  moment  you  are  free.  I  gather 
Van  is  also  keen  —  and  also  tied  up.  It  is  a  pity.  I  would  like  one 
of  you,  if  not  both,  to  be  doing  your  duty  in  that  line  —  and  I  felt 
quite  sure  of  you.  —  ["Didn't  he  feel  sure  of  Van?"  Derek  reflected, 
not  a  little  taken  aback.]  But  we  both  feel  you  are  doing  right  in 
the  sad  circumstances.  And  you  have  our  united  sympathy,  though 
it  is  tempered  with  disapproval!  Write  again  soon.  Marion  ties 
me  down  to  a  short  letter,  so  I  must  keep  clear  of  the  War,  which  is 
going  to  be  a  bigger  business  than  most  of  them  suppose.  God  bless 
you.  Take  care  of  yourself. 

Your  loving  father 

AVONLEIGH 

The  whole  tone  of  the  letter  was  kinder,  more  understanding, 
than  he  had  dared  to  hope  for;  and  the  different  ending  —  he 
very  well  knew  —  was  no  mere  formula.  He  seemed  only  to 
be  discovering  his  father  now  that  half  the  world  lay  between 
them.  Why  had  they  missed  each  other  so  hopelessly  through- 


228  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

out  the  years  of  his  boyhood  ?  If  they  could  but  meet  and  talk 
over  all  this!  Some  day  —  perhaps  — ? 

He  started.    It  was  Mrs.  Macrae  at  the  door. 

"Deny  —  can  I  come  'long  in?" 

"Yes,  of  course."  He  rose  and  proffered  his  chair.  She 
accepted  it  and  looked  up  at  him  where  he  stood  near  the  stove, 
holding  his  hands  over  the  warmth. 

"I'm  tired,  some,"  she  sighed  —  and  then  smiled.  "A  good 
sign  that.  No  time  to  feel  tired  till  you  know  you're  through 
the  wood." 

"Is  Lois  —  through  the  wood?"  Derek  asked  quietly. 

She  nodded.     "I  reckon  so.     Sleeping  like  a  babe  new  born." 

"Thank  God  for  that." 

"So  pretty  she  looks.     You  did  ought  to  see  her." 

"May  I  — when?" 

"Presently.     Quiet  as  a  mouse !" 

He  let  out  a  deep  breath  and  was  silent,  wanning  his  hands. 
Twice  she  gave  him  a  significant  look.  Then  she  ventured  to 
speak  her  thought. 

"Say,  Deny  —  I  s'pose  you  know  there  was  more  to  it  than 
her  lungs?" 

His  mute,  bewildered  gaze  assured  her  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
sort.  "And  didn't  Lois  know  it,  neither?"  she  demanded  of  his 
silence. 

He  looked  uncomfortable.  "I  —  really  —  she  never  said  so 
to  me." 

"My!  You  are  a  sweet  pair  of  innocents!  Well  —  there's 
an  end  to  it  now.  An'  best  so,  maybe." 

Again  she  paused  and  looked  up  at  him,  thinking  what  a 
fine  manly  face  he  had  and  how  tired  he  looked;  wondering  did 
he  guess  at  all,  about  Jos  Agar  ?  It  was  she  wrho  ought  to  have 
seen  earlier  how  things  were  going:  and  she  blamed  herself 
more  than  Lois  —  or  even  Jos.  For  she  knew,  now,  what  the 
nurses  —  thank  Heaven  • —  could  not  know,  that  Jos  was  re 
sponsible  for  all  they  had  just  been  through.  If  Derek  did 
not  know,  he  ought  to  be  told:  and  she  found  the  telling  un 
expectedly  difficult.  Plain-spoken  though  she  was,  she  had  her 


INTO  THE  DEEP  229 

reticences.  And  she  was  fond  of  Derek:  fonder  than  ever, 
these  days.  He  was  so  plainly  a  gentleman  all  through:  she 
could  not  bear  to  shock  or  hurt  his  finer  feelings. 

Presumably  he  agreed  with  her  last  remark:  but  he  said 
nothing.  In  respect  of  confidences  or  intimate  talk,  one  had 
to  go  all  the  way  with  Derek  Blount. 

"Say,  Deny,"  she  plunged  at  last.  "Did  you  never  get 
thinking  how  far  things  might  have  gone  between  her  an'  Jos 
Agar?" 

"Agar?"  He  frowned  sharply,  and  she  saw  the  question 
startled  him. 

"That  was  my  meaning  when  I  said  —  best  so.  An'  —  she 
never  let  on?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Probably  she  was  afraid  —  poor  child. 
I've  found  her  straight  in  other  ways." 

"An'  you  didn't  never  suspect?  she  pressed  him,  the  ice 
being  broken. 

"N-no.  Well"  — he  corrected  himself—  "fact  is  ...  I 
did  think  about  it  —  before  ...  in  the  spring.  I  wondered 
you  weren't  more  strict  with  her.  But  —  since  we  married,  I 
haven't  given  it  a  thought." 

It  was  her  turn  to  be  surprised  now.  "You  wondered  about 
it  —  before?  And  yet  —  you  married  her!  Though  it's  plain 
to  see,  you  aren't  gone  on  her  —  never  have  been!" 

Derek  winced.  "Is  it  so  plain?"  he  asked,  evading  the 
point. 

"'Tis  to  me,  anyways;  though  I  thought  different  —  once. 
When  you  might  have  had  her,  you  held  off;  and  when  there 
was  good  excuse  for  any  man  letting  her  go,  you  nipped  in  an' 
married  her.  I  never  could  make  head  or  tail  of  it." 

"And  —  you  never  will,"  he  said,  very  quietly.  "It's  our 
own  affair,  and  I'd  rather  not  talk  of  it,  if  you  don't  mind. 
Have  you  said  anything  to  Lois?" 

" Sakes,  no!     She's  bin  in  no  state  for  talk." 

"Well,  if  she  doesn't  realize  things  —  let  her  be.  I  won't 
have  her  worrying  on  my  account.  She's  done  too  much  of 
that  already." 


230  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Again  Mrs.  Macrae  looked  at  him  steadily,  pondering. 

Then:  "I  knew  right  away  you  was  the  straight  goods, 
Derek,"  she  said  with  her  large  smile.  "But  I  never  reckoned 
you  was  as  straight  an'  simple-hearted  as  that  amounts  to. 
Guess  she's  bin  in  luck,  has  Lois  — 

"Oh,  dry  up,  please,"  he  said,  in  a  pained  voice.     "I've  done 
what  I  could  for  her  —  which  was  little  enough.    And  now  — 
she's  half  killed  herself  for  my  benefit." 

Mrs.  Macrae  nodded  and  rose  from  her  chair.  "You've 
acted  like  a  man  an'  you  can  bet  she  knew  it.  But  I  must 
be  getting  back  now  case  she  might  wake.  You  look  in 
later." 

When  she  had  gone,  Derek  sat  down  and  opened  Mark's 
letter.  He  had  scarcely  finished  reading  it  when  Mrs.  Macrae 
was  back  at  the  door.  This  time  she  entered  without  ceremony: 
her  news  in  her  startled  eyes. 

"Derek  —  she's  gone  —  as  quiet  as  quiet.  Just  slipped 
away  in  her  sleep." 

Derek  said  nothing:  but  the  dazed  look  of  pain  in  his  eyes 
went  to  her  motherly  heart. 

"Will  you  come,  my  dear?  No  fear  we'll  disturb  her  now. 
After  all  —  so  best,  poor  lamb!" 

He  had  not  thought  her  strong  voice  could  achieve  so  soft  a 
tone.  It  vibrated  through  him,  almost  upsetting  his  control. 
But  he  rose  and  followed  her  without  a  word.  On  the  thresh 
old  she  glanced  at  his  face  that  was  set  and  strained:  then 
slipped  away  and  left  them  alone. 

Lois  lay  like  a  child  asleep,  one  cheek  resting  on  the  pillow, 
one  thick  red-gold  plait  over  her  shoulder;  her  still  face  deli 
cately  tinted  like  a  waxen  transparency.  It  seemed  to  him 
incredible  that  she  would  never  wake  again.  And  the  irony, 
that  had  tinged  their  wThole  brief  relation,  persisted  even  to  the 
end.  For  Lois,  dead,  stirred  him,  moved  him,  more  profoundly 
than  Lois  alive  had  ever  done,  for  all  her  clinging  devotion. 

His  own  words  came  back  to  him:  "She's  half  killed  herself 
for  my  benefit."  They  fell  short  of  the  truth.  This  one  thing, 
in  her  short  aimless  life,  she  had  done  thoroughly:  and  it  was 


INTO  THE  DEEP  231 

done  for  him.     But  that  he  knew  she  had  simply  forestalled 
the  inevitable,  he  could  scarce  have  endured  the  thought. 

Suddenly,  while  he  stood  there,  her  voice  sounded  somewhere 
in  his  brain:  "Kiss  my  eyes  to  sleep,  Derry."  Stooping  he 
kissed  them  each  in  turn,  that  her  last  sleep  might  be  un- 
affrighted  with  dreams.  His  own  eyes  were  heavy  with  tears; 
and  one  of  them  fell  on  her  forehead.  Very  gently  he  wiped 
it  away.  Then  he  laid  his  hand  upon  her  bright  hair;  held  it 
there  a  moment  in  a  silent  benediction  —  and  went  out  — 

Mrs.  Macrae  stayed  with  him  till  everything  was  over:  and 
he  was  thankful  exceedingly  for  her  presence  to  ease  his  very 
real  sense  of  loss.  For  all  her  blunt,  outspoken  ways,  her 
touch  never  jarred:  and  she  mothered  him,  in  his  dazed  and 
silent  distress,  as  his  own  mother  had  never  done  in  all  her  days. 

For  nearly  four  months,  his  life  had  moved  in  a  restricted 
circle  with  Lois  for  its  central  point:  her  health,  her  fancies,  her 
insistent  need  of  him.  Only  now  that  she  was  gone  did  he 
realize  how  complete  that  concentration  had  been;  and  the 
readjustment  of  heart  and  brain  took  time.  He  begged  Mrs. 
Macrae  to  do  whatever  she  pleased  with  the  furniture  and  all 
the  pretty,  useless  trifles  in  which  Lois  had  taken  such  delight. 
The  mere  sight  of  them  hurt  him  more  than  he  could  have 
believed  .  .  . 

Their  brief  sojourn  together,  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow, 
was  an  experience  neither  would  easily  forget;  and,  in  the  course 
of  it,  their  latent  friendship  blossomed  into  an  abiding  reality. 

Gradually,  completely,  Derek's  whole  nature  righted  itself. 
Old  allegiances  claimed  him.  He  was  his  own  man  again  — 

Early  in  December  came  news  from  Lady  Forsyth  that  Mark 
had  been  restored  to  them  —  wounded  and  broken,  but  alive: 
and  it  needed  only  that  to  arouse  him  altogether.  Straight 
way  he  cabled  to  his  father: 

Free  to  join  up.  Propose  returning  by  Japan  and  Bombay  if  you 
approve. 


232  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

And  very  soon  the  answer  sped  back  to  him : 
Delighted  to  see  you  —  AVONLEIGH. 

A  week  later  he  stood,  at  last,  on  the  deck  of  an  ocean 
liner  watching,  with  very  mixed  emotions,  the  ghostly  glory 
of  Mount  Baker  gleam  and  grow  misty  and  fade  into  nothing 
ness,  like  the  vision  of  a  dream.  .  .  . 


END   OF   BOOK   THREE 


BOOK   IV 
SMOKE  AND   FLAME 


BOOK  IV 
SMOKE  AND  FLAME 

CHAPTER  I 

Occasions  do  not  make  a  man  frail,  they  show  what  he  is. 

THOMAS  A  KEMPIS 

To  the  Honourable  Evan  Trevanyon  Blount,  of  Avonleigh  Hall, 
War  with  a  '  great  and  friendly  nation '  -  -  War  that  had  been 
written  down  a  financial  impossibility  —  had  proved  a  some 
what  disconcerting  event.  Consequently,  he  had  been  slow  to 
face  the  full  significance  and  proportions  of  a  struggle  that  had 
shattered  his  most  comforting  beliefs ;  and,  incidentally,  a  good 
many  other  things  that  could  not  be  so  easily  mended. 

Even  after  eight  and  a  half  months  of  Homeric  fighting  — 
of  muddle  and  heroism  and  startling  revelations  of  German 
psychology  —  his  official  atmosphere  was  scarcely  changed,  and 
he  himself  had  shed  little  of  his  old  faith.  Not  that  he  was  a 
miracle  of  constancy  in  believing;  but  that  he  was  fain  to  ex 
tract  every  ounce  of  comfort  from  an  admittedly  disquieting 
situation.  By  every  financial  canon,  Germany  should  have 
reached  her  last  ounce  of  credit  months  ago.  The  spring  of 
fensive  —  lyrically  heralded  by  newspaper  poets  —  should  have 
rolled  her  armies  back  to  the  Rhine.  Neither  of  these  things 
had  happened,  and  Van  had  an  unpleasant  sensation  of  having 
been  'let  down.' 

The  British  Army,  it  seemed,  was  short  of  guns  and  explosives 
and  a  few  other  trifles  essential  to  victory.  But  one  began  to 
discover  that  the  human  element  —  the  mere  officers  and  men 
—  possessed  amazing  grit,  by  virtue  of  which  they  had  achieved 
the  impossible  and  could,  apparently,  be  trusted  to  keep  on 
achieving  it,  as  and  when  required. 


236  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Upheld  by  this  comforting  discovery,  Van  had  uncomplain 
ingly  endured  the  trials  of  that  first  winter  of  War.  For  the 
sake  of  his  own  digestion  and  his  mother's  peace  of  mind,  he 
had  cultivated  a  serenely  detached  optimism.  He  had  dis 
believed,  on  principle,  all  'scare'  mongering,  and  throughout 
those  early  bewildering  days  —  when  the  talk  was  of  no  rifles 
and  no  food,  of  invasion  and  revolution  —  he  had  kept  his  head 
and  laid  in  a  goodly  store  of  his  own  particular  needs.  Nor 
had  he  been  'rushed'  into  parting  with  his  immaculate  Ba 
varian  valet.  The  good  fellow  had  protested  loyal  devotion, 
and  had  been  smilingly  advised  to  'go  Swiss  for  the  duration  of 
the  War.' 

Even  his  tentative  idea  of  joining  the  Army  haa  been  effec 
tually  dispelled  by  a  heart-to-heart  talk  with  his  Chief,  who 
condensed  his  view  of  the  country's  needs  into  one  pithy  phrase: 
"Brawn  for  the  Flanders  front.  Brains  for  the  Home  front." 
On  this  particular  occasion,  he  added  conclusively:  "  You  know 
all  the  ropes,  Blount,  and  the  work's  more  complex  these  days. 
I  can't  spare  you  —  that's  flat!"  And  Van  had  dutifully  re 
signed  himself  to  the  situation. 

Only  in  one  respect  had  he  really  been  hard  hit.  His  few, 
spasmodic  investments  were  chiefly  in  German  concerns.  His 
father's  repeated  warnings  that  the  two  countries  were  potential, 
if  not  actual,  enemies  had  been  countered  with  airy  chaff  about 
the  'militarist  microbe,'  and  well-grounded  assertions  that 
nothing  could  shake  the  commercial  foundations  of  Germany. 

He  did  not,  now,  find  it  convenient  to  remember  all  the 
irrefutable,  second-hand  arguments  he  had  launched  on  the 
subject  of  international  finance  in  relation  to  modern  war.  No 
doubt  there  were  scores  of  cleverer  men  in  the  same  boat;  a 
reflection  that  soothed  his  vanity,  if  it  failed  to  readjust  his 
bank  account.  And  he  had  felt  the  loss  keenly.  For  in  ad 
dition  to  his  personal  outlay  at  Avonleigh  House,  there  was  the 
well-appointed  suite  at  the  Albany.  There  were  theatres,  and 
little  dinners.  There  were  billiard  matches  and  week-ends,  and 
a  few  other  costly  items  indispensable  to  his  full  enjoyment  of 
life.  So  dividends  came  in  handy  —  and  they  were  no  more. 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  237 

To  his  relief,  Lord  Avonleigh  had  tactfully  refrained  from 
enquiring  after  the  health  of  his  investments;  and  Van  had  not 
spoken  of  the  matter  to  any  one,  except  to  his  friend  Karl 
Schonberg  and  —  oddly  enough  —  Karl's  father. 

In  the  course  of  1913  he  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  elder 
Schonberg,  who  now  rented  a  house  in  Mayfair  and  kept  an 
interested  eye  on  Karl's  work  at  Avonleigh.  His  friendly  ad 
vances  had  not  been  discouraged  by  Van,  who  endorsed  the 
cynical  axiom  of  his  own  world,  '  Go  where  money  is.'  Schon 
berg  kept  a  good  table  and  gave  his  guests  sound  wine.  As  a 
raconteur  he  could  hold  his  own  with  the  best;  and  he  had  a  rare 
repertoire  of  piquant  tales  about  well-known  people  up  his 
sleeve.  The  spiciest  of  these  were  reserved  for  the  select  few; 
and  to  those  alone  he  revealed  a  tithe  of  his  uncanny  intimacy 
with  the  vast,  complex  world  of  finance.  He  knew  the  alphabet 
of  the  Stock  Exchange  from  A  to  Z.  A  tip  from  Schonberg 
was  a  mark  of  favour  worth  having;  and  it  followed  that  Van 
had  very  soon  said  in  his  heart:  "This  is  a  man  to  be  cultivated. 
Why  did  Karl  never  let  on?" 

From  that  time  the  cultivating  process  had  gone  steadily 
forward  to  their  mutual  satisfaction.  Whether  that  sensation 
would  have  been  shared  by  Lord  Avonleigh  was  a  question 
so  doubtful  that  Van,  hi  his  letters  to  Bombay,  considerately 
refrained  from  more  than  casual  allusions  to  Karl's  father.  He 
inclined  to  greater  freedom  with  his  mother;  but  she  had 
developed  a  nervous  dread  of  anything  with  a  German  name, 
from  a  new-born  infant  upwards.  Van  had  several  friends 
thus  alarmingly  inflicted,  and  only  her  implicit  faith  in  him 
persuaded  her  that  those  few  must  be  all  his  fancy  painted 
them.  For  these,  and  other  cogent  reasons,  the  Schonberg  in 
timacy  belonged  to  that  private  and  personal  region  of  his  life 
which  concerned  no  one  except  himself  —  or  so  he  fondly 
supposed. 

But  Adolf  Schonberg  was  a  light  not  easily  hidden  under  a 
bushel  —  unless  the  bushel  happened  to  serve  his  own  ends. 
With  his  appearance  in  town,  he  stood  revealed  to  a  large  circle 
of  business  friends  as  a  more  potent  influence  in  the  region  of 


238  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

politics  and  finance  than  he  had  hitherto  allowed  them  to  sus 
pect.  His  name  figured  prominently  on  subscription  lists, 
Relief  Funds,  the  personnel  of  War  Committees;  and  it  was  in 
pursuance  of  these  commendable  activities  that  he  had  hit 
upon  the  happy  idea  of  financing  a  hospital  for  wounded  officers, 
could  he  but  secure  the  loan  of  a  large  country  house  in  healthy 
and  beautiful  surroundings:  briefly,  Avonleigh  Hall.  The  place 
had  been  let  to  a  friend  of  his  for  the  summer  of  1913.  It  was 
now  unoccupied.  Refusal,  in  the  circumstances,  would  not 
look  well;  and  few  men  of  his  acquaintance  were  more  sensitive 
to  appearances  or  more  amenable  to  diplomatic  pressure  than 
young  Evan  Blount.  A  tete-a-tete  dinner,  Pol  Roger,  vintage 
port  and  liqueur  brandy,  were  allies  whose  virtue  he  had  proven 
a  score  of  times  —  and  they  did  not  fail  him  now. 

Van  —  when  he  had  got  over  his  initial  astonishment  —  took 
kindly  to  the  idea.  Since  he  was  not  fighting  and  had  no  spare 
cash  to  squander  on  Relief  Funds,  an  Avonleigh  Hospital 
seemed  a  good  move:  the  more  so  that  this  amazingly  large- 
hearted  German  —  naturalized,  of  course  —  was  ready  to  take 
all  the  trouble  and  most  of  the  expense  off  his  hands.  He  was 
only  restrained  from  settling  matters  outright  by  the  knowledge 
that  neither  of  his  parents  would  approve  the  scheme  in  its 
actual  form.  He  needed  time  to  devise  a  version  of  it  nearer 
to  their  liking.  So  he  had  temporized  pleasantly  and  begged 
leave  to  think  things  over. 

That  little  dinner  had  taken  place  on  a  certain  Monday  eve 
ning  of  early  April,  1915;  and  on  the  Friday  afternoon  Van  sat 
alone  in  the  drawing-room  of  his  bachelor  suite,  presumably 
thinking  things  over,  while  he  sipped  his  afternoon  coffee  and 
skimmed  the  columns  of  an  "Early  War  Edition."  Even  in 
these  anxious  days,  he  was  not  among  those  for  whom  newspaper 
reading  became  a  form  of  dram-drinking.  He  had  no  enthusi 
asm  for  the  heroics,  no  appetite  for  the  horrors  of  war:  but  he 
had  enough  imagination  to  be  made  very  uncomfortable  by 
sanguinary  details,  gloomy  forecasts  and  sweeping  assumptions 
that  every  one  in  authority  was  doing  the  wrong  thing  on  prin- 


SMOKE  AND  FLAME  239 

ciple.  The  simplest  way  to  avoid  such  futile  discomfort  was  to 
patronize  the  optimistic  press  and  avoid  "War  talk"  like  the 
plague;  the  which  he  conscientiously  did.  This  hospital  busi 
ness,  of  course,  would  bring  him  up  against  wounded  men; 
but  it  would  be  as  well  to  have  his  name  connected  with  some 
thing  of  the  kind.  In  fact,  his  mind  was  made  up  —  or,  more 
accurately,  his  version  was  made  up  to  suit  the  prejudices  of 
his  people. 

He  had  lunched  at  Avonleigh  House  and  propounded  the 
plan,  casually,  to  his  mother  and  Ina  and  George,  on  whom  he 
had  left  a  distinct  impression  that  the  idea  was  his  own.  He 
had  been  applauded  for  his  patriotic  impulse:  though  Lady 
Avonleigh,  on  second  thoughts,  had  jibbed  a  little  at  the  idea 
of  giving  up  her  foothold  in  the  country.  Things  were  still  so 
insecure.  London  might  be  invaded.  When  winter  came, 
those  awful  noiseless  Zeppelins,  people  talked  about,  might 
come  over  in  battalions  and  rain  fire  from  heaven.  Avonleigh 
was,  so  to  speak,  her  fire  escape. 

Ina  had  proffered  her  own  little  place  as  a  substitute.  It 
was  quite  'the  smart  thing';  and  Van  must  not  be  choked  off, 
when  he  did  happen  to  sprout  an  idea.  She  would  go  down 
herself  to  cheer  up  the  officers.  And  of  course  they  must  have 
a  Committee.  She  was  Ai  at  Committees  — 

A  groan  from  George  confirmed  that  last.  "Between  War 
Babies  and  War  Committees,  G.  F.  Junior  hasn't  a  dog's 
chance." 

"  G.  F.  Junior  can  assert  himself  quite  as  effectively  as  G.  F. 
Senior,"  Ina  had  retorted  with  playful  sharpness.  "As  for 
Committees  —  you  legal  men  can't  talk.  Nothing  you  love 
better  —  so  long  as  they  don't  commit !  Look  at  your  lead 
ing  lights,  trying  to  run  a  super-German  War  on  the  non 
committal  touch!" 

"Ina's  always  neatest  when  she's  nastiest,"  Van  reflected, 
smiling  at  the  remembrance.  He  had  enjoyed  the  little  passage 
of  arms  —  not  uncommon  between  those  two;  but  on  the  whole 
he  had  been  mildly  bored.  And  this  evening  he  anticipated 
further  boredom  in  a  pleasanter  form.  For  his  guest  in  chief 


240  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

was  a  certain  Miss  Cynthia  Doreen,  to  whom  he  contemplated 
offering  his  name  and  prospective  title  —  one  of  these  days. 
Personally,  he  was  in  no  hurry  to  "  domesticate  the  Recording 
Angel."  Women  were  delightful:  but  he  liked  variety,  and 
preferred  them  unattached.  The  deuce  of  it  was  they  would 
not  let  him  be;  and  he  was  susceptible  —  up  to  a  point. 

Miss  Doreen  —  the  candidate  of  the  moment  —  was  an  Irish- 
American  heiress.  Under  the  very  select  wing  of  the  Lady 
Agatha  Hamerton  she  had  made  something  of  a  stir  among 
society  bachelors  with  titles  to  offer  in  exchange  for  gold;  and 
many  had  rushed  in  to  their  undoing.  Van,  cooler  and  more 
wary,  had  been  discreetly  favoured:  when,  lo,  into  the  midst 
of  his  leisurely  courtship  there  crashed  a  European  War.  But 
Miss  Doreen  had  not  joined  in  the  scramble  to  cross  the  Atlantic. 
She  had  preferred  to  stay  on  with  Lady  Agatha,  freely  spend 
ing  herself  and  her  money  in  the  Allied  cause. 

They  were  dining  to-night  in  Van's  rooms,  with  Karl  to  make 
a  square.  After  dinner  there  would  be  a  discreet  theatre,  and 
after  the  theatre,  a  more  or  less  discreet  supper  at  the  Carlton. 
Not  near  such  good  fun  as  last  night's  little  lark;  when  Karl  had 
put  in  just  enough  champagne  to  be  really  entertaining;  and  he 
had  driven  home  with  Leonie  Lemaure  in  her  most  provocative, 
most  enchanting  mood.  There  were  indiscreet  moments  when 
he  was  guilty  —  almost  —  of  wishing  he  could  cut  the  conven 
tions  and  marry  her  outright.  There  was  something  about  her 
—  more  than  mere  physical  witchery.  English  to  the  marrow, 
he  was  yet  fain  to  admit  that  a  Frenchwoman,  high  or  low, 
had  a  sheer  gift  for  life  rarely  found  in  the  women  of  his  own 
race;  and  if  this  one  could  not  become  mistress  of  Avonleigh, 
she  reigned  unchallenged  in  her  own  sphere  —  a  natural-born 
mistress  of  men  — 

At  this  point  Van  emptied  his  coffee-cup,  lit  a  fresh  cigarette 
and  wondered  what  the  deuce  had  become  of  old  Karl,  who 
had  gone  off  to  lunch  with  Schonberg.  He  could  hardly  have 
been  jawing  with  him  all  this  time.  He  was  a  secretive 
beggar  in  some  ways,  was  Karl;  and  their  closer  relation  had 
not,  for  some  indefinite  reason,  led  to  closer  intimacy.  They 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  241 

seemed  content  now-a-days  to  skim  the  surface  of  things.  Van 
supposed  it  was  the  common  fate  of  all  youthful  friendships. 
The  queer  thing  was  that  while  he  grew  intimate  with  the  father, 
he  grew  less  intimate  with  the  son ;  and  this  inverted  process  had 
culminated  in  Karl's  attitude  to  the  hospital  scheme.  Instead 
of  being  keen,  he  seemed  lukewarm;  even  inclined  to  deprecate 
hasty  decision.  And  Van,  completely  puzzled,  had  suffered  a 
tweak  of  doubt;  not  as  to  Karl's  loyalty,  but  as  to  his  sentiments. 
Certainly,  at  the  start,  he  had  spoken  of  joining  the  Army: 
but  when  Van  flatly  refused  to  let  him  go,  he  had  admitted  that 
men  like  himself,  linked  with  both  combatants,  were  in  a  rather 
awkward  position  whatever  their  sympathies  might  be.  Since 
then  they  had  tacitly  avoided  the  subject;  and  only  when  Van 
was  most  aware  of  constraint  between  them  would  the  awkward 
question  arise  —  Had  Karl  found  himself,  after  all,  more  at 
tached  to  the  Fatherland  he  so  stoutly  criticized  than  he  cared 
to  admit? 

It  was  such  a  confoundedly  unpleasant  supposition  that  Van 
relegated  it  to  the  rubbish  heap  of  other  unpleasantnesses  at 
the  back  of  his  mind.  Still,  intermittently,  it  bothered  him  — 

Ah,  there  he  was  at  last! 

He  entered  simultaneously  with  the  post:  a  couple  of  bills 
and  an  envelope  in  Derek's  handwriting.  The  fact  that  it  bore 
an  English  stamp  distracted  Van's  attention  from  the  worried 
look  in  Karl's  light  eyes.  The  last  he  had  heard  of  his  brother 
was  from  Bombay. 

"Dirks  in  England  again!"  he  exclaimed.  "Good  business. 
Sit  down,  old  man,  and  help  yourself  now  you  have  turned  up." 
And  as  Karl  obeyed,  he  opened  his  letter.  "Salisbury  Plain! 
He's  joined  up  instanter,  without  so  much  as  reporting  himself 
to  his  family,  after  two  and  a  half  years'  absence.  Dirks  all 
over!  Short  and  sweet.  Care  to  hear?" 

Karl  nodded. 

DEAR  OLD  VAN,  —  This  is  to  announce  that  I  really  am  home 
again.  Fixed  up  in  khaki  (though  it  happens  to  be  emergency  blue), 
and  hoping  this  finds  you  in  the  pink  as  it  leaves  me  at  present!  I 


242  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

got  a  week-end  pass  on  joining,  so  I  propose  to  come  and  see  you  all. 
I've  written  to  Mother  and  told  her  to  wire  if  she's  very  much  en 
gaged,  in  which  case  I  would  go  to  Wynchcombe  Friars.  I  long  for  a 
sight  of  you  all  and  a  whiff  of  Town;  so  I  hope  you're  not  up  to  the 
eyes  in  important  engagements.  I  shall  reach  Waterloo  12.10,  and 
with  all  due  respects,  I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

Your  obedient  servant, 
DEREK  BLOUNT,  Pte.  No.  5936. 


Van  sat  silent  a  moment  studying  a  small  bronze  by  Rodin, 
for  which  he  had  paid  a  very  long  price.  He  was  thinking  of 
old  days.  In  his  unemotional  fashion,  he  cared  a  good  deal 
more  for  Derek  than  that  obstinate  sceptic  could  ever  bring 
himself  to  believe. 

"He's  the  right  sort,"  Karl  remarked  quietly.  "Goes 
straight  ahead.  No  palaver." 

"No.  He's  got  his  failings,  but  there's  not  much  wind- 
baggery  about  old  Dirks.  Still  —  he  might  as  well  have  gone 
for  a  commission.  Sheer  perversity  —  acting  the  ruddy  demo 
crat,  when  he's  nothing  of  the  kind.  Mother  can  have  him  for 
lunch.  Then  I'll  trot  him  round.  Square  dinner  at  the  Carl- 
ton  —  what?  You  and  your  father!" 

"Wouldn't  he  rather  meet  some  one  else?  I  like  Derek,  but 
I  never  thought  he  cared  much  about  me.  And  he  doesn't 
know  my  father." 

"Well,  he's  going  to  remedy  that  defect  in  his  education. 
Great  sport! — You  seem  to  have  had  a  top-hole  lunch  party. 
Couldn't  drag  yourself  away." 

"Quite  the  reverse.     I  left  early  and  went  on  to  some  music." 

"Well,  you  might  have  rung  me  up." 

"It  wouldn't  have  amused  you.  All  classical.  I  had  a 
Homeric  thirst  on  for.  the  real  thing." 

But  Van  cared  nothing  for  Karl's  Homeric  thirst. 

"Did  your  father  mention  the  great  scheme?"  he  asked. 

"He  talked  of  precious  little  else." 

"Glad  he's  keen.  Wish  I  could  say  the  same  of  you.  A 
big  house  like  that  ought  to  be  utilized  —  what  ?  " 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  243 

"Of  course  it  ought.  But  I  happen  to  have  my  hands  full 
with  my  own  job.  The  other's  your  affair." 

Van  looked  hard  at  his  friend,  pensively  twirling  a  super 
fluous  eyeglass  that  he  had  affected  of  late.  "You  are  a  queer 
beggar,  Karl,"  he  said,  smiling.  "Come  along  and  buzz  round 
till  it's  time  to  do  the  polite  again." 

And  they  went  out  together. 


CHAPTER  II 

There  is  no  philosophy  more  irritating  than  that  of  a  brother. 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

AT  half-past  twelve  next  morning,  Lady  Avonleigh  sat  alone 
in  her  spacious  double  drawing-room.  She  was  moved  beyond 
her  wont  by  Derek's  return,  and  his  immediate  absorption  into 
that  terrible  War:  and  because  she  felt  shy  of  her  motherly 
emotion,  she  had  arranged  for  a  quiet  talk  with  'dear  Derek' 
before  the  others  arrived.  She  liked  to  stage-manage  these 
little  events  so  as  to  avoid  undue  commotion.  Her  heart  and 
nerves  were  shaken  more  than  ever  in  these  unsettling  days. 
So  Van  was  to  meet  Derek  at  Waterloo  and  send  him  on  alone; 
and  none  of  them  were  to  turn  up  till  one  o'clock. 

When  the  door  opened  she  rose  with  a  little  flutter  of  an 
ticipation  —  and  behold,  a  stranger !  Not  the  rather  clumsy 
boy  of  Oxford  vacation  days,  but  a  lean,  muscular  man  in  blue 
uniform  and  puttees;  his  sunburnt  face  more  personable  than 
she  remembered  it;  and  in  his  eyes  such  a  vivid  look  of  his 
father  that  her  heart  beat  quicker  and  her  neat  little  speech  of 
welcome  failed  to  come  off. 

They  simply  smiled  at  each  other.  Then  Derek  came  quickly 
forward,  flung  his  arms  round  her  and  kissed  her  with  quiet 
fervour  —  once,  and  then  again.  .  .  . 

Quite  another  being,  this  stranger  son  —  !  And  the  change, 
if  distinctly  disturbing,  was  also  distinctly  pleasant.  Since 
her  parting  with  Evan,  no  one  had  shown  her  such  genuine 
affection:  and  she  appreciated  affection,  though  she  had  small 
skill  in  response. 

Derek,  himself,  aware  of  her  emotion,  had  a  sudden  flash  of 
hope  that  perhaps  he  had  found  her  also,  through  going  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth;  and  he  allowed  one  arm  to  remain  round  her 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  245 

shoulder  while  she  stroked  the  other,  murmuring:  "Dear  Derek 

—  dear  boy !    Such  a  relief  to  feel  you  are  back  safe.    Out 
there  —  one  never  knew  what  might  be  happening  to  you. 
And  you  never  really  told  me  in  your  letters  —  you're  as  bad 
as  Father!     And  you  know  —  you've  grown  so  like  him!" 

"  Glad  to  hear  it,"  Derek  said  heartily,  and  she  smiled. 

"It  was  a  charming  plan  your  having  that  little  time  to 
gether.  So  disappointing  that  Van  and  I  could  not  go.  How 
is  he  looking,  dear  ?  He  said  his  illness  was  nothing.  But  one 
can  never  tell." 

"He's  better,  anyway.  Looks  tired,  though  —  and  older. 
It's  a  beastly  climate  and  he  overworks." 

She  sighed.  "I  wish  he  could  come  home.  And  I  wish  — 
don't  scold  me!  —  that  you  weren't  rushing  off  again  at  once." 

"I'll  probably  get  the  summer  at  home.    It  does  come  hard 

—  on  the  women  — " 

"Yes.  But  still  —  it's  quite  the  right  thing;  and  —  you 
look  very  nice."  She  stood  back  a  little,  surveying  him. 
"Naturally,  I'd  rather  you  had  waited  for  a  commission. 
Much  more  suitable." 

"I'm  not  so  sure.     7  prefer  it  this  way." 

She  shook  her  head  at  him.  "It's  just  a  kink  in  you.  I 
believe,  if  you  could  manage  it,  you'd  prefer  walking  on  your 
hands,  simply  because  other  people  walk  on  their  feet." 

It  was  the  first  whiff  of  misunderstanding  —  and  it  hurt. 

"No,  Mother,  it's  not  that,"  he  said  with  a  touch  of  con 
straint.  "Anyway  —  Father  approves.  —  Hullo!  what's  this?" 

He  picked  up  a  photo  of  a  yearling  babe. 

"My  grandson!"  she  said  with  a  faint  note  of  pride;  and  they 
talked  of  Ina  and  her  marriage,  and  trivial  things;  and  the  little 
thrill  of  rapprochement  had  subsided  before  the  others  arrived. 

Ina  greeted  him  with  what  Van  called  her  sisterly  peck;  and 
a  no  less  sisterly  remark  that  seeing  Derek  look  smart  was  quite 
'one  of  the  events  of  the  War.' 

It  was  a  family  lunch;  besides  themselves  and  George,  only 
General  Sir  Vyvian  Blount,  from  the  War  Office:  and  Derek 
was  the  centre  of  interest.  He  wondered  whether  they  felt  — 


246  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

as  he  did  —  the  strangeness  of  that  simple  fact.  What  did  he 
think  of  this?  What  was  his  impression  of  that?  How  did 
London  strike  him?  Did  she  look  like  a  city  at  war?  He  con 
fessed  that  he  had  hoped  to  see  her  looking  more  like  it  than 
she  did. 

"But  London  isn't  at  war  —  yet"  he  added  decidedly. 
"And  till  she  is,  we  shall  never  get  a  real  move  on." 

Ina  —  a  devout  Londoner  —  at  once  sprang  to  arms.  "My 
good  idiot,  London  is  as  much  at  war  as  you  are.  We're  simply 
humming  with  activities.  You've  only  seen  the  surface." 

"Haven't  had  time  to  see  much  more,"  he  retorted  good- 
humouredly.  "But  you  asked  what  I  thought.  And  you  have 
to  reckon  with  outside  impressions.  I  should  say  everything 
counts  —  in  war." 

General  Blount  bestowed  an  approving  glance  on  the  nephew 
he  scarcely  knew.  With  here  a  question  and  there  a  comment, 
he  drew  the  boy  on  to  speak  his  mind  —  modestly,  but  deci 
sively,  and  even  critically  —  on  the  one  engrossing  topic  of  the 
hour.  By  reason  of  his  very  love  for  England,  Derek  was  the 
more  sensitive  to  those  defects  of  her  qualities  that  make  her, 
as  an  enemy,  too  casual,  too  tolerant,  except  when  pressed  to 
extremities  —  her  back  against  the  wall.  It  was  an  attitude 
both  Van  and  his  mother  could  be  trusted  to  misunderstand. 
In  their  view,  the  love  of  country,  or  of  family,  that  could 
frankly  recognize  failings  was  tantamount  to  disloyalty.  But 
Derek — absorbed  in  the  only  subject  that  could  lift  him  above 
self-consciousness  —  forgot  to  be  scrupulously  correct  either  hi 
sentiment  or  speech.  When  he  lauded  Kitchener  as  'the 
straight  goods,'  and  agreed  with  Sir  Vyvian  that  all  enemy 
aliens  in  Government  offices  should  be  'fired  good  and  quick,' 
Lady  Avonleigh  gasped  in  faint  dismay:  "My  dear  Derek! 
Have  you  forgotten  how  to  talk  English?" 

"Sorry,  Mother,"  he  apologized,  laughing.  "One  catches  the 
tricks  of  speech." 

"Racy  and  expressive.  I  like  'em,"  said  the  General,  who 
seemed  bent  on  luring  him  to  his  undoing.  And  they  pursued 
their  theme:  rounding-up  Germans,  stiffening  the  Cabinet, 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  247 

bringing  all  forces  —  spiritual,  commercial,  and  neutral  —  into 
full  play. 

"Father  feels  just  as  you  do,  Uncle  Vy,"  Derek  concluded 
gravely.  "It's  all  bound  to  come  in  time  —  unless  we're  pre 
pared  to  face  a  drawn  game.  So  —  the  sooner  the  better  for 
every  one.  If  we  fancy  we  can  defeat  the  Central  Empires  with 
one  arm  strapped  up,  we're  in  for  a  very  rude  awakening." 

At  this  point  Van  managed  to  catch  his  eye;  and  Derek,  per 
ceiving  he  had  blundered,  tingled  hotly  and  relapsed  into  polite 
generalities  till  the  men  were  left  alone. 

After  lunch  the  atmosphere  was  easier;  but  the  old  uncom 
fortable  sense  of  being  in  the  wrong  was  back  upon  him;  and 
he  wanted  to  get  away  for  a  talk  with  Van.  When  he  kissed 
his  mother,  at  parting,  he  felt  no  thrill  of  response;  and  she 
shook  her  head  at  him  half  playfully. 

"You  mustn't  be  disloyal,  Derek,  and  abuse  your  own  country 
—  especially  now  you're  wearing  this!" 

The  gentle  rebuke  stung  him  to  the  quick. 

"I'm  not  disloyal,  Mother.     I'm  only  —  facing  facts  — " 

But  she  held  her  ground.  "I  don't  think  one  ought  to  be 
too  clear-sighted,  in  that  sort  of  way  .  .  .  where  one  loves." 

It  was  useless  to  attempt  self -justification.  She  would  never 
understand  — 

When  they  had  made  their  escape,  he  ran  upstairs  to  see  old 
Con,  who  had  been  listening  for  his  step  since  lunch  ended. 

"There!  Didn't  I  know  you'd  come!"  she  cried  as  he  stood 
before  her  at  the  salute.  Then,  without  more  ado,  she  set  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  came  very  near  kissing  him,  as  on 
that  far-off  day  of  tragedy.  She  might,  indeed,  have  ventured 
had  she  known  that  Derek  of  four  and  twenty  would  have 
minded  it  far  less  than  did  Derek  of  eight  and  a  half. 

^"You're  his  Lordship  all  over,"  she  murmured,  and  could  say 
no  more,  for  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

Derek,  to  relieve  the  tension,  talked  of  his  father  and  the 
wonders  of  Japan.  "But  I  mustn't  stop  long,"  he  concluded. 
"Mr.  Van's  waiting." 

"Ah  —  he's  not  the  one  to  be  kept  waiting!"  she  said,  with 


248  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

an  odd  change  of  tone.     "But  I  knew  you'd  never  forget  your 
old  Con." 

"Not  till  I  forget  my  own  name!"  he  assured  her,  and  ran 
lightly  downstairs.  The  hampering  sense  of  gene  was  gone  — 

They  drove  to  the  Albany  in  an  open  taxi;  a  mottled  April 
sky  overhead;  flower-stalls  gay  with  daffodils;  a  caressing  soft 
ness  in  the  air.  Except  that  the  streets  were  emptier,  and  the 
eye  was  assailed  at  intervals  by  recruiting  posters,  Derek  found 
it  was  hard  to  believe  —  as  he  had  said  —  that  London  was  at 
war.  The  scare  of  financial  ruin  was  past.  The  impulse  to 
live  frugally,  out  of  respect  for  those  good  fellows  in  the  trenches, 
had  spent  itself,  more  or  less.  The  War  was  passing  from  an 
obsession  into  an  atmosphere.  It  was  possible  —  rather  a  relief 
in  fact  —  to  talk  of  other  things.  A  long  face  killed  no  Ger 
mans  and  only  made  your  neighbour  feel  down-hearted.  So 
the  old  grey  city  was  unobtrusively  slipping  back  into  its  former 
pleasant  ways  —  with  a  proper  sense  of  difference,  because  those 
good  fellows  were,  after  all,  still  dying  in  the  trenches,  and  suffer 
ing  unspeakable  tortures  in  the  prison  camps  of  Germany. 

Van's  drawing-room  —  with  its  pictures  and  bronzes,  and 
capacious  chairs  —  seemed  an  oasis  embedded  in  the  heart  of 
peace.  No  disturbing  reminders  of  conflict  except  an  early 
edition  of  the  Westminster  reposing  on  a  table. 

Derek  seized  and  scanned  it  eagerly;  and  they  discussed  the 
contents.  'Nothing  doing'  at  the  moment;  and  they  had  no 
inkling  of  the  terrible  event  in  store. 

Then  Van  pushed  him  into  the  largest  chair.  "Good  old 
Dirk  of  the  Red  Hand!"  he  said  affectionately.  "Can't  scalp 
you  now  they've  made  a  blooming  convict  of  you!  'Member 
the  great  game?" 

"Rather!" 

"  How  d'you  like  my  new  decorations?  Not  so  dusty  — 
what?" 

"A  slight  improvement  on  our  local  Y.M.C.A.!"  Derek 
admitted,  surrendering  himself  blissfully  to  the  cushioned  soft 
ness  and  the  fragrance  of  Van's  Russian  cigarettes. 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  249 

For  a  time  they  puffed  contentedly.  Van  seemed  less  fluent 
than  usual;  and  Derek  set  it  down  to  the  War.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  himself  was  the  cause.  Van  was  more  struck  by  the 
change  in  his  younger  brother  —  whom  he  had  patronized  and 
mildly  bullied  —  than  he  quite  cared  to  admit.  This  new 
Derek,  with  his  muscular  frame  and  his  Imperial  outlook,  gave 
Van  almost  a  sense  of  having  been  left  behind  in  a  backwater. 
Mentally,  he  now  seemed  the  older  of  the  two.  All  the  same, 
he  had  spread  himself  overmuch  at  lunch;  and  Van  was  minded 
to  readjust  the  balance  of  things  by  taking  him  to  task  in  elder- 
brotherly  style. 

"How  do  you  think  the  Mother  looking?"  he  asked  by  way 
of  prelude. 

" Lovely,"  Derek  answered,  speaking  the  simple  truth.  "A 
few  more  grey  hairs,  of  course.  Her  eyes  rather  worried  and 
her  mouth  a  little  strained  — 

"Yes.  This  beastly  business  has  shaken  her  a  good  deal. 
And  look  here,  Dirks  —  I  may  as  well  give  you  the  tip  that  the 
sort  of  stuff  you  talked  at  lunch  only  upsets  her,  and  gives  a 
wrong  notion  of  yourself  into  the  bargain  — " 

But  if  Derek  had  been  hurt  by  his  mother's  rebuke,  he  was 
quite  untroubled  by  Van's  patronizing  hint. 

"I  don't  wear  opinions  for  the  look  of  them,"  he  said  coolly. 
"Sorry  if  they  bothered  her.  But  I  believe  most  of  what  I 
said  is  true.  Uncle  Vy  seemed  to  think  so,  and  I  know  Father 
does.  It's  not  pleasant  of  course.  But  —  that's  another 
story." 

Van  was  nonplussed.  Derek  had  slipped  out  of  leading 
strings  with  a  vengeance.  He  was  tougher,  inside  and  out. 
One  could  not  play  upon  his  sensitiveness  as  of  old. 

"There  is  such  a  thing  as  considering  others,"  he  remarked 
virtuously.  "  It  makes  people  nervous  —  Mother  especially  — 
if  there's  a  perpetual  suggestion  in  the  air  that  things  are  being 
muddled  by  the  man  at  the  wheel  — 

"So  they  take  chloroform!"  murmured  the  unquenchable 
Derek.  "I  observe  it's  being  freely  administered  to  silence  the 
critics." 


250  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Well,  hang  it  all,  we  can't  fight  the  Germans  and  each  other. 
Besides  —  if  every  one  felt  called  upon  to  blurt  out  the  indecent 
truth,  life  would  be  unlivable  — " 

"Which  is  the  classical  excuse  —  for  telling  lies!"  said  Derek, 
blowing  smoke  rings  through  one  another. 

"Dirks,  don't  be  a  fool,  and  don't  slither  off  the  point." 

"Thought  that  was  your  pet  parlour  trick!" 

Van,  the  imperturbable,  changed  colour  and  sat  upright. 
"Look  here,  young  'un  —  d'you  want  me  to  go  for  you?" 

"I  wouldn't  advise  you  to,"  Derek  retorted  with  his  sudden 
smile.  "I'm  some  wrestler  now!  And  I'm  no  longer  the  young 
'un  I  used  to  was.  Let's  talk  straight,  old  chap.  I  may  not 
be  an  F.  0.  intellectual;  but  I  lay  I've  come  up  against  more  all- 
round  experience  in  the  last  two  years  than  you've  done  since 
Oxford." 

Van  subsided  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "That's  possible. 
But  you're  such  a  confounded  dark  horse.  What  mysterious 
freaks  have  you  been  up  to,  Dirks?  " 

Derek  looked  at  him  quizzically  a  moment.  "Not  much 
mystery  about  any  of  'em.  I've  worked  on  a  farm  and  in  a 
mine  and  on  fruit  ranches;  and  I've  cut  sandalwood  in  the  Bush. 
But  mostly  I've  been  logging  in  B.  C." 

Derek  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  Van  look  frankly  as 
tounded.  "Great  —  Scott!  Does  Father  know  all  that?" 

"Sure  thing.     I'm  not  ashamed  of  it." 

"And  what  the  deuce  is  logging?"  asked  the  liberally  edu 
cated  Van. 

"Lumbering,"  Derek  translated  and  vouchsafed  him  a  brief, 
picturesque  account  of  the  life.  Van  listened  with  unfeigned 
interest  and  increasing  amazement. 

"For  more  than  two  years,  you've  practically  had  no  truck 
with  gentlemen?"  said  he:  and  Derek  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"That's  news  to  me.  I  spent  a  week  with  Jacko  last 
summer;  likewise  I  found  some  of  my  logging  pals  quite  as 
good  gentlemen  as  half  the  rich  blighters  you  fool  round  writh 
in  London." 

"Hul-lo!    You  turned  democrat?" 


SMOKE  AND  FLAME  251 

"No.  I  suppose  I'm  what  they  call  a  Progressive  Tory. 
I've  merely  learnt  a  little  more  about  my  kind.  That's  what  I 
was  out  for,  if  you  want  the  clue  to  my  passing  madness." 

"  And  what's  the  Ultima  Thule?    Politics?  " 

"Well  —  that  depends.  If  the  War  lasts  long  enough  to  put 
new  life-blood  into  them  and  smash  the  caucus  — 

Van  smiled  his  most  elder-brotherly  smile.  "You're  not 
pliable  enough  for  politics,  old  chap." 

"No  —  not  the  present  sort.  But  I  hope  I'll  manage  to  serve 
my  country  some  day,  without  developing  an  india-rubber 
spinal  column !  —  Just  now  helping  to  defeat  Germany  is  good 
enough  for  me." 

"But  why  not  a  commission?" 

"This  suits  me  best.  I  settled  it  all  with  Father.  I  didn't 
fancy  .  .  .  Mother  would  understand;  so  I  thought  it  would 
save  arguments  to  arrive  fixed  up.  —  Bad  luck  you  can't  join. 
7  should  kick  over  the  traces.  Sir  Roger  would  survive." 

There  was  no  hint  of  criticism  in  Derek's  voice:  but  Van  felt 
embarrassed,  also  a  little  annoyed. 

"It's  easy  talking,"  he  said,  twirling  his  eyeglass.  "Sir 
Roger  has  been  awfully  decent  to  me;  and  the  least  one  can  do 
is  to  consider  his  wishes.  But  that  sort  of  thing  has  never  been 
one  of  your  strong  points,  old  chap." 

"No,"  Derek  agreed  without  comment;  and  Van  felt  more 
annoyed  than  ever.  He  had  looked  forward  keenly  to  this 
meeting;  and  Derek,  instead  of  playing  up,  was  being  an  in 
fernal  nuisance,  with  his  private's  uniform  and  his  superior  airs. 
Then  Van  remembered  his  hospital  scheme:  for  he  had  almost 
arrived  at  believing  his  own  tacit  implications.  Derek  should 
see  that  he  was  not  the  only  one  of  the  family  who  was  doing 
the  correct  thing. 

"Did  Mother  mention  our  great  plan  —  about  Avonleigh?" 
he  asked  after  a  pause. 

"Avonleigh?"  Derek  turned  sharply,  very  much  on  the  alert; 
and  Van  proceeded  to  explain. 

Derek,  while  he  listened,  recalled  certain  talks  about  the  old 
place  in  Bombay.  "  What  does  Father  say?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 


252  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Well  —  it's  rather  a  sudden  notion.  We've  had  no  time 
to  consult  him  yet." 

"But  you  talk  as  if  it  was  all  settled." 

"It  is  —  practically.  I  cabled  this  morning  for  his  assent. 
They're  short  of  good  accommodation.  It's  not  likely  he'd 
refuse." 

"N-no.  But  ...  I  imagine  he'd  rather  jib  at  the  notion, 
unless  he  could  run  it  himself.  You  might  have  waited." 

Van  frowned.  "Wounded  men  can't  wait.  And  you  over 
look  the  fact  that  he  gave  me  very  full  powers.  In  a  matter 
like  this  —  if  I  see  fit  — " 

"Oh  —  you'll  run  it  yourself,  then?"  Derek  asked  with 
significant  emphasis.  —  He  knew  his  Van. 

"  'M  —  not  exactly.  I  haven't  the  time.  We  thought  of  a 
small  Committee.  It'll  cost  something,  of  course.  But  they're 
all  subscribing;  and  a  good  many  friends  are  interested,  too. 
Karl's  father,  old  Schonberg  —  very  free-handed  and  a  first- 
rate  organizer  —  is  keen  to  help." 

Derek  started.  "Do  you  propose  to  have  Schonberg  on  the 
Committee?" 

"If  we  can  get  him,"  Van  answered  with  perfect  suavity. 
"But  I'm  afraid  he's  full  up." 

"D'you  see  much  of  him,  these  days?" 

"  Naturally  —  considering  his  son's  my  assistant  Agent. 
He's  not  half  a  bad  chap.  Brains  enough  for  a  dozen.  Gives 
a  thundering  good  dinner  too,  and  has  the  devil's  own  luck  in 
everything  he  touches  —  Derek  said  nothing;  and  his  critical 
silence  —  plus  a  natural  impulse  of  self-justification  —  goaded 
Van  into  saying  more  than  he  had  intended.  "He's  been  show 
ing  up  quite  a  lot  in  Town,  lately.  In  with  leading  lights  at 
Westminster,  and  all  that.  A  jolly  useful  man  to  be  friend 
with,  I  can  tell  you.  What's  your  objection  —  you  prickly  old 
hedgehog?" 

"Merely  that  Schonberg  is  thorough  German  and  —  we  hap 
pen  to  be  at  war." 

Van's  laugh  betrayed  a  faint  uneasiness.  "You  think  he 
ought  to  be  behind  barbed  wire?" 


SMOKE  AND  FLAME  253 

"There  or  thereabouts.  But  I  suppose  the  leading  lights 
also  find  him  a  useful  man  to  be  friends  with!  I  may  be  very 
dense,  but  it  gets  me  altogether.  Surely  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  common  caution  — " 

"There's  also  common  sense  and  common  tolerance.  I  sup 
pose  we  English  are  about  the  most  tolerant  lot  in  creation." 

Derek's  whimsical  smile  was  Lord  Avonleigh's  own.  "  Strikes 
me  that,  in  war,  tolerance  may  become  first  cousin  to  treason. 
Certainly  our  enemies  are  clever  enough  to  exploit  our  amiable 
weakness  for  all  it's  worth." 

Van  frowned.  "  You've  the  cheek  of  the  devil.  You  imply 
—  to  my  face — that  Schonberg  is  an  enemy.  He's  been  thirty 
years  in  England,  off  and  on.  He's  naturalized  — " 

"Since  when?" 

"Oh  —  four  or  five  years  ago." 

"Shrewd  man!" 

" Confound  you! "  Van  rapped  out  sharply.  " Upon  my  soul, 
Dirks,  you're  the  one  person  on  earth  who  reminds  me  that  I 
keep  a  temper.  Lucky  it's  a  mild  one,  or  we'd  quarrel  outright. 
And  I'd  rather  not." 

"So'd  I.  Much  rather  not.  But  if  you're  death  on 
Schonberg  — " 

"Rot!  I  merely  find  him  useful;  —  and  I  don't  intend  to 
chuck  him  because  he  happens  to  have  been  born  a  German. 
In  fact  I've  arranged  a  little  foursome  at  the  Carlton  to-night 
for  you  to  meet  him  and  Karl." 

At  that  Derek's  prickles  were  up  again.  "Damn  it,  that's 
a  bit  too  thick.  If  I  distrust  a  man,  I  prefer  to  keep  clear  of 
him." 

Van  pressed  the  point  with  tactful  insistence.  "I  say,  Dirks, 
you  can't  refuse.  It  would  put  me  in  the  hell  of  a  hole.  Karl 
wants  to  see  you,  too:  and  I  suppose  you  make  a  distinction? 
He's  not  quite  himself  these  days.  He's  doing  great  things  for 
Avonleigh.  It  would  please  him  if  you  took  an  interest." 

"I  do  —  very  much  so." 

"Well,  swallow  your  prejudice  and  I  promise  you  a  top-hole 
dinner.  It  won't  hurt  you  to  set  eyes  on  old  Schonberg  and  do 


254  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

the  polite  once  in  a  way.    You  may  change  your  opinions  at 
close  quarters." 

On  second  thoughts  Derek  decided  that  he  might  as  well 
have  a  square  look  at  the  Burlton  bogey,  who  loomed  in  his 
imagination  like  a  Brocken  figure,  seen  through  the  mist  of 
Jack's  suspicions  and  fears. 

It  was  no  Brocken  figure,  but  a  thick-set  man,  a  size  larger 
than  life,  who  sat  opposite  to  him  that  evening  at  Van's  partic 
ular  table,  reserved  for  them  by  Van's  particular  waiter,  who 
presented  the  'carte'  with  a  delicately  emphasized  air  of  re 
spect  that  implied  anticipation  of  a  recherche  menu  and  tips 
to  correspond. 

Derek,  fresh  to  it  all  after  his  long  absence,  thoroughly  en 
joyed  the  familiar  little  comedy  of  gesture  and  glance,  at  his 
own  table  and  the  next  and  the  next.  But  chiefly  his  attention 
was  riveted  by  the  heavy,  inscrutable  face  of  Adolf  Schonberg, 
who  seemed  to  dominate  their  little  group  by  sheer  force  of 
personality.  The  droop  of  his  thick  eyelids,  the  set  of  his  firm, 
fleshy  lips  and  double  chin  suggested  a  formidable  blend  of 
caution  and  daring;  a  man  of  genuine  power,  who,  in  pursuit  of 
his  purpose,  would  unhesitatingly  give  away  every  one  but  him 
self.  Instinctively  Derek  compared  that  solid  wall  of  brow,  the 
whole  impressive  effect  of  forces  in  reserve,  wnth  his  brother's 
pleasant,  thought-free  face  and  serene  air  of  taking  it  for 
granted  that  all  things  must  work  together  for  his  personal 
good. 

"Not  a  dog's  chance  for  him,"  he  thought,  with  a  sudden 
contraction  of  the  heart,  "if  the  fellow's  friendship  is  mere 
eyewash — " 

Van's  voice  recalled  him  to  more  serious  considerations. 
"Have  you  any  little  weakness,  Dirks,  in  the  entree  line? 
When  Schonberg  gives  me  the  honour  of  his  company,  I  usually 
leave  him  to  pick  the  menu.  But  this  is  your  funeral!  It's  a 
question  of  salmi  versus  vol-au-vent.  Any  use  giving  the  wild 
woodsman  a  vote  —  what?  Or  would  he  be  puzzled  to  tell 
t'other  from  which  without  the  assistance  of  his  senses?  " 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  255 

"He  might,"  Derek  agreed  gravely.  "But  he  had  the  luck 
to  get  a  Chinese  cook,  in  B.  C.,  who  made  both  to  perfec 
tion." 

"Wha-at?    In  a  lumber  camp?" 

"No.    In  a  bungalow  I  rented  for  a  time." 

The  minute  the  words  were  out  he  could  have  bitten  his 
tongue.  For  a  gleam  in  Van's  eye  said  plainly:  "So  you're 
not  altogether  the  good  little  boy  you  would  have  us  believe!" 
But  he  contented  himself  with  a  significant  chuckle.  "Plenty 
of  pretty  women  in  those  parts  —  what?" 

"Nothing  to  shout  about,"  Derek  answered,  tingling  with 
annoyance  and  helping  himself  out  of  several  little  white 
dishes.  "  But  I'm  not  such  a  romantic  chap  as  you  are.  I'm  a 
better  judge  of  cooks  than  of  women;  and  the  Chinese  variety 
are  the  straight  goods  — " 

"That's  his  elegant  Canadianese  for  top-hole!"  Van  trans 
lated  for  Schonberg's  benefit;  and  the  great  man  looked  up  from 
a  scientifically  dissected  sardine. 

"I  haf  been  in  Ameriga  —  alzo  Canada,"  he  said,  with  an 
amused  twitch  of  shaggy  brows  that  communicated  itself  to  the 
crown  of  his  head  and  his  prominent  ears.  The  remark  was 
addressed  to  Derek;  and  he  added,  with  his  guttural  delibera 
tion:  "A  great  and  strange  people  —  the  Shinese.  Few  things 
they  mague  in  which  they  do  not  excel  nations  that  belief  they 
are  miles  in  adfance.  More  than  likely  there  will  gome  a  day 
when  most  of  Asia  shall  be  in  their  hands.  I  would  bet  three 
hundred  against  one  that  you  young  fellows  shall  lif  to  see  it  — • 
if  only  the  beginning.  One  liddle  drawback  is  —  /  should  not 
be  alive  to  pogget  my  winnings!" 

"Have  you  been  there?"  Derek  asked.  Already,  in  spite 
of  antagonism,  he  was  interested.  He  would  have  liked  an 
hour's  real  talk  with  the  Burlton  bogey. 

Schonberg  nodded. 

"  Business  gonnegtions,  when  I  was  younger  and  more  active 
than  now.  A  goot  many  gountries  I  haf  sampled  in  my  time; 
but  for  home  —  for  friendliness  and  gomfort  —  none  to  equal  our 
zo  grey  and  zo  green  little  Island." 


256  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

The  possessive  pronoun  set  Derek's  prickles  on  end;  but  at 
that  point  Van  thrust  in  his  oar. 

"Steady  on,  you  two!  What's  the  voting  —  salmi  or  vol- 
au-vent?  It's  rather  a  more  vital  question,  at  this  moment, 
than  the  future  of  China.  Go  ahead,  Dirks." 

"Oh,  don't  mind  me,  old  chap!  I  reckon  whatever  Mr. 
Schonberg  fancies  will  be  good  enough  for  us." 

"I  reckon  it  will!"  Van  mimicked  him:  and  —  the  rest  of  the 
menu  having  been  settled  by  that  prince  of  gourmets  —  Van 
waxed  solicitous  over  the  particular  brand  of  sherry  that  Schon 
berg  favoured  with  his  soup.  Derek  —  half  amused,  half  an 
noyed  by  his  brother's  deferential  attitude  —  turned  to  Karl, 
whose  manner  was  as  quiet  and  contained  as  his  father's  was 
discursive  and  genial.  But  beneath  the  geniality  Derek  could 
detect  the  iron  brain  that  had  moulded  the  destinies  of  Burl- 
tons  and  had  unmistakably  gained  some  sort  of  hold  on  Van. 
It  jarred  him  to  see  his  suave,  well-mannered  brother  show  even 
the  faintest  sign  of  being  too  assiduous  to  please;  and  it  made 
him  wish  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart  that  his  father  could 
get  back  at  once  to  England  —  and  Avonleigh. 

Yet,  before  the  meal  was  well  over,  he  found  himself  wonder 
ing,  whether  he  had  not  been  a  trifle  unjust  in  his  judgment 
after  all. 

When  they  had  reached  the  more  expansive  stage  of  coffee 
and  liqueur  brandy,  he  ventured  —  not  altogether  without 
guile  —  to  speak  of  German  penetration  in  Australia.  He 
thought:  "Since  the  old  sinner  talks  of  'our  little  Island'  we'll 
return  the  compliment  by  taking  his  loyalty  for  granted!" 

For  a  time  Schonberg  listened  in  silence,  affectionately  fin 
gering  a  large  cigar,  while  this  much-too-well-informed  young 
man  innocently  prodded  the  most  sensitive  parts  of  his  spiritual 
anatomy. 

"I  was  told  as  a  fact"  Derek  said,  finally,  addressing  himself 
to  Karl,  "  that,  for  years,  the  two  most  influential  papers  in 
Australia  have  been  practically  powerless  to  publish  a  mite  of 
anti-German  matter!  How  the  deuce  can  they  have  let  things 
come  to  such  a  pass?" 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  257 

Karl  sucked  in  his  lips  and  glanced  at  his  father,  who  looked 
up  with  a  sudden  lift  of  his  lids  that  revealed  the  whole  opaque 
iris,  and  startlingly  changed  his  expression. 

"My  dear  young  man  —  gan  you  ask?"  he  said  with  silken 
suavity.  "There  is  only  one  sure  gommodity  that  will  purchase 
the  souls  of  men.  The  Chermans  haf  grave  faults  —  yes.  But 
they  haf  just  so  much  gommon  sense  to  know  that  inheriting  the 
earth  is  not  to  the  meeg.  It  is  to  him  who  can  hide  his  brains 
in  a  bushel  and  pull  fools  by  the  nose,  while  making  them  belief 
they  go  their  own  way  — " 

"  Well,  I'm  hanged  if  you  can  hide  your  brains  under  a  bushel," 
Van  struck  in;  —  uneasiness  lurked  in  his  bantering  tone. 
"And  I  haven't  observed  a  tendency  to  pull  your  neighbours' 
noses.  But  I  don't  seem  to  see  you  coming  off  with  short 
commons!" 

Again  that  queer  movement  of  the  lids.  "There  is  not 
always  need  to  use  the  thumb  and  ringer,  my  literal  friend." 

Something  in  the  man's  tone  —  was  it  the  shadow  of  the 
shade  of  a  sneer  —  provoked  Derek  to  hit  out  once  again. 
"Well,  Mr.  Schonberg,"  he  said  cheerfully,  raising  his  glass, 
"here's  hoping  for  the  good  day  when  we  shall  get  our  German 
neighbours  so  firmly  by  the  nose  that  they  will  be  under  no 
delusion  as  to  which  way  they  are  going!" 

" Zo!"  Schonberg  rumbled  with  an  unmoved  countenance; 
tossed  off  the  rest  of  his  brandy  and  frankly  smacked  his 
lips. 

When  Van  suggested  an  adjournment  to  the  Palace,  he  ex 
cused  himself  with  a  jocose  waggle  of  his  head.  "Very  well 
for  you  —  young  dogs  —  hein?  Snatch  so  mush  possible  of  life 
while  you  can.  I  haf  come  to  an  age  I  can  do  without  the 
women,  when  there  are  bigger  fishes  to  fry.  To-night  I  haf 
assignation  with  another  mistress.  If  more  exacting,  also  more 
profitable!" 

"Business  —  at  this  hour!"  remonstrated  Van;  and  Schon 
berg  chuckled  in  the  depths  of  his  diaphragm. 

"AchI  You  are  a  gentleman  of  leisure!  For  me  all  hours 
are  business  hours.  —  Goot-night,  Mr.  Blount.  Great  pleasure 


258  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

to  maig  your  acquaintance.  You  are  so  mush  the  son  of  your 
father,  you  will  not  long  hide  your  light  under  this  bushel,  hein  ?  " 

But  even  the  one  compliment  Derek  never  resented  could  not 
undo  the  effect  of  that  queer  facial  change  and  the  significant 
remark  to  Van. 

When  he  had  gone,  Derek  and  Karl  unanimously  voted  for 
musical  comedy:  and  not  till  the  brothers  were  alone  again  in 
the  Albany  did  Van  broach  the  thorny  subject. 

"Well  — what's  the  verdict?"  he  asked  airily.  "I  hope  I 
see  a  humble  penitent  before  me?" 

Derek  shook  his  head.  "You  see  an  obstinate  sceptic  before 
you!" 

"  But  he's  a  notable  fellow  —  what?  " 

" Sure  thing.  Capital  company,  for  dinner:  so  far,  no  farther! 
Frankly  I'd  as  soon  make  friends  with  a  live  shell.  At  least  one 
would  know  how  the  land  lay." 

Van  shrugged.  He  had  a  later  engagement,  with  Leonie; 
and  was  feeling  too  lazy,  too  well  pleased  with  life  to  argue  the 
point. 

"Confound  you,  Dirks  —  you're  incorrigible,"  was  all  he  said. 

And  Derek  left  it  at  that.  But  he  decided  to  keep  his  eyes 
and  ears  wide  open  when  his  next  pass  enabled  him  to  revisit 
Avonleigh  and  unburden  his  mind  to  Mark. 


CHAPTER  III 

Uppe  and  sette  yt  lance  in  restet 
Uppe  and  follow  on  the  queste, 
Leave  the  issue  to  be  gtiessed 
At  the  endynge  of  the  waye. 

OLD  BALLAD 

ON  Salisbury  Plain,  in  April  of  1915,  the  improvised  battal 
ions  of  Kitchener's  Army  were  beginning  to  look  more  like 
embryo  soldiers  and  less  like  a  demonstration  of  the  unemployed. 
Broomsticks  were  still  too  much  in  evidence.  There  was  still  a 
famine  of  khaki  and  ammunition  boots.  Reservist  N.C.O.'s,  of 
South-African  fame,  still  waxed  blasphemous  over  the  very 
mixed  assortment  of  loyal  counter-jumpers  and  clerks,  under 
graduates  and  ticket-collectors,  whom  it  was  their  painful  duty 
to  hammer  into  more  or  less  homogeneous  platoons.  Small  need 
had  they  for  repeated  assurances  that  England  had  harboured 
no  thought  of  war.  They  lived  and  moved  among  overwhelming 
proofs  to  that  effect;  till  the  more  thoughtful  were  driven  to  con 
clude  that  her  amazing  unreadiness  argued  either  a  criminal  lack 
of  foresight,  or  a  hidden  intention  to  stand  aside  —  at  a  price. 
Derek  had  joined  a  Hampshire  Service  Battalion ;  and  on  the 
Monday  following  his  dinner  at  the  Carlton,  he  and  his  fellow 
'rookies'  spent  an  educative  afternoon  wheeling  and  marking 
time  in  ankle-deep  mud;  soaked  to  the  skin,  by  thorough-going 
April  showers;  while  a  Reservist  drill  Sergeant  thundered  words 
of  command,  interlarded  with  compliments  of  the  back-handed 
variety.  It  was:  "Left,  right — left,  right  —  -  See  here  you, 
with  the  Bond  Street  boots  —  when  I  says  left,  I  means  left  .  .  . 
About  —  tur-r-rn!  Gor  blimy!  A  Sunday  school  class  could 
give  yer  points.  As  yer  were  —  as  yer  were!  Yer  enough  to 
give  an  archangel  the  hiccups  —  Gawd  'elp  'Is  Majesty  if  ever 
you  gits  to  Frawnce!" 


260  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

This  was  not  precisely  encouraging,  even  though  the  compli 
ments  were  collective;  and  the  ordeal  over,  they  straggled  off 
the  barrack  square  to  watch  the  Battalion  —  nine  hundred 
privileged  beings  who  had  passed  beyond  these  initial  miseries  — 
swinging  back  from  a  sham  fight  to  the  strains  of  the  popular 
lament: 

'Left!    Right!    Left!    Right! 
Why  did  I  join  the  Army? 
Why  did  I  ever  join  Kitchener's  mob? 
Lor  lummy!    I  must 'a' bin  balmy!" 

So  even  the  privileged  had  their  grievances.  They  had  en 
listed  in  order  to  '  pot  Germans ' ;  and  here  they  were  fobbed  off 
with  moving  targets  and  everlasting  mimic  battles  in  the  mud. 

Derek,  who  had  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  luxury  of  being  him 
self  again  for  a  few  months,  found  the  process  of  re-adaptation 
not  particularly  pleasant.  But  it  was  good,  beyond  expression, 
to  be  Home  again :  to  be  even  a  microscopic  unit  in  Kitchener's 
Army  —  that  supreme  expression  of  the  Nation's  single-hearted 
will  to  conquer. 

He  had  heard  plenty  of  the  usual  talk  about  wooden  methods 
and  the  military  mind:  but  now  —  working  in  the  midst  of  it 
all  —  it  was  the  miracle  of  elasticity  that  impressed  him  rather ; 
the  marvel  of  ordered  control  underlying  the  initial  orgy  of 
confusion  and  waste,  born  of  a  valiant  attempt  to  cram  into  a 
few  months  that  which  should  have  been  the  work  of  years. 

In  his  battalion  he  had  the  luck  to  find  Smithers;  and  better 
still,  his  adventurous  friend  Bert:  —  transformed  into  the 
smartest  of  corporals  and  hugely  tickled  at  the  idea  of  treating 
Mr.  Derek  as  an  inferior  in  rank.  He  and  his  friend  had  done 
well  with  their  little  ranch.  He  was  married,  now,  to  a  capable 
Canadian  girl;  and  in  the  course  of  their  second  talk  he  had  in 
sisted  on  repaying,  with  interest,  that  momentous  fifty  pounds 
which  had  given  him  his  chance.  Derek  drew  the  line  at  interest ; 
but  had  finally  accepted  the  fifty,  because  he  saw  that  refusal 
would  hurt  his  friend's  proper  pride. 

It  was  by  favour  of  his  Captain,  an  old  Oxonian,  that  he 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  261 

secured  a  special  pass  on  the  Saturday  after  that  disturbing 
little  dinner  in  Town.  The  oftener  he  turned  things  over  in  his 
mind,  the  stronger  grew  his  suspicion  of  some  hidden  link  be 
tween  Schonberg  and  Van;  and  he  could  not  rest  till  he  had 
gathered,  indirectly,  from  Malcolm  and  Gosling,  how  Avon- 
leigh  was  faring  under  the  new  regime.  The  revelation  of  the 
father's  deep  personal  feeling  for  the  old  place  had  moved  him 
deeply.  From  boyhood,  he  had  wondered  if  any  of  them  had 
quite  the  same  sensations  about  Avonleigh  as  himself.  Now  he 
knew:  —  and  the  knowledge  had  gone  far  to  dispel  the  mutual 
reserve  that  was  due,  in  part,  to  Lady  Avonleigh's  failure  as 
wife  and  mother. 

In  Government  House,  Bombay,  Marion  Blount  had  set  her 
self  to  create  a  true  home  atmosphere  for  her  brother;  and  there, 
in  less  than  a  month,  this  father  and  son  —  so  little  known  to 
each  other  —  had  achieved  a  degree  of  intimacy  as  surprising  as 
it  was  satisfying  to  them  both.  Derek's  marriage,  and  all  he  had 
gone  through,  served  to  bridge,  in  a  measure,  the  gulf  of  the 
years.  They  could  talk  together  as  men,  with  the  freemasonry 
of  their  manhood  between  them. 

Encouraged  by  his  father's  friendliness,  Derek  had  produced 
a  photograph  of  Lois  in  the  graceful  frock  that  had  done  duty 
for  her  wedding-dress.  It  was  a  flattering  picture.  Lord  Avon 
leigh's  admiration  rang  true;  and  a  sympathetic  question  or 
two  had  unloosed  Derek's  tongue.  They  had  sat  till  after  mid 
night  in  Lord  Avonleigh's  sanctum;  and  Derek  had  spoken 
frankly  of  the  idea  underlying  his  Odyssey,  with  never  a  sapient 
smile  or  a  tweak  of  sarcasm  to  pull  him  up  short.  He  had  also 
spoken  frankly  of  Lois;  and,  before  they  parted,  had  told  his 
father  things  he  had  not  thought  to  tell  any  mortal  soul.  Quite 
simply  and  sincerely  Lord  Avonleigh  had  thanked  him  for  his 
confidence.  They  never  spoke  of  it  again.  And  Derek  was  not 
unmindful  that  Lois  —  more  potent  in  death  than  in  life  — 
had  no  mean  share  in  it  all. 

More  than  once,  during  that  delightful  visit,  he  had  marvelled 
at  his  youthful  folly;  but,  in  those  days,  any  hope  of  real  inti 
macy  had  seemed  as  far  removed  as  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon. 


262  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

And  now  that,  at  last,  they  had  found  each  other,  war  inexorably 
thrust  them  apart  — 

So,  to  his  own  concern  for  Avonleigh  was  added  the  certain 
knowledge  that  his  father  would  hate  this  insidious  intrusion  of 
Schonberg  quite  as  much  as  he  did  himself. 

He  arranged  to  spend  Friday  night  at  the  Avonleigh  Arms  and 
Saturday  night  at  Wynch combe  Friars;  and  he  gave  Mark  his 
'reasons  in  writing'  why  the  order  was  not  reversed. 

"I  want  to  get  at  things  first,  old  chap,"  he  wrote,  "then 
come  and  talk  it  all  out  with  you." 

And  Tom  Gosling  was  as  likely  a  medium  for  getting  at  things 
as  any  publican  in  the  countryside.  The  'Arms'  had  a  repu 
tation  for  good  measure  and  good  company  of  which  its  owner 
was  justly  proud:  and  in  those  early  days  of  acute  alien  peril  he 
pressed  that  reputation  into  his  country's  service;  sometimes 
with  more  zeal  than  discretion,  but  on  occasion  with  brilliant 
results.  But  Derek  went  first  to  Malcolm's  office,  and  appre 
ciated  keenly  the  welcome  accorded  to  him  by  that  inexpressive, 
lantern-jawed  Scot. 

In  his  Spartan,  bachelor  sitting-room  he  produced  port  and 
biscuits  and  Indian  cigars  —  a  gift  from  Bombay;  and  not  till 
they  had  made  good  progress  with  the  last  did  Derek  approach 
the  subject  nearest  his  heart.  The  perfectly  natural  question: 
"  D'you  rub  along  all  right  with  Karl  Schonberg?  "  landed  him  in 
the  centre  of  things  without  need  of  preamble. 

Malcolm,  in  his  negative  fashion,  expressed  satisfaction  with- 
Karl.    "  Well  —  he's  none  of  your  conceited  jackanapes  —  that 
dismiss  every  man  over  forty  as  an  antiquated  ass.    He  doesn't 
talk  a  great  deal  —  but  he  works.    An  outsider  might  fancy  he 
was  keener  about  the  Estate  than  Mr.  Blount." 

Derek  smiled.  "  Van's  a  Londoner.  And  —  he  has  a  great 
opinion  of  Karl." 

"H'm!  That  sort  generally  has  the  luck  to  be  well  served. 
Young  Schonberg  in  my  opinion  has  only  two  drawbacks.  One's 
his  name  and  the  other's  —  his  father." 

"Hard  luck!"  Derek  murmured  with  his  twinkle;  and  added 
carelessly:  "D'you  dislike  Schonberg?" 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  263 

"I  dislike  his  nationality,"  was  the  cautious  rejoinder;  and 
Derek's  twinkle  deepened. 

"That  should  go  without  saying  by  this  time.  The  queer  thing 
is  —  it  doesn't.  My  father  feels  very  strongly  about  the  slack 
ness  at  Home."  A  pause.  "Do  you  see  much  of  Schonberg 
down  here?" 

Malcolm  grunted.  "7  don't.  But  —  I  gather  this  neighbour 
hood  sees  more  of  him  than  is  altogether  good  for  its  health  — 
He  looked  keenly  at  the  boy  who  had  grown  so  like  his  admired 
Viscount.  "Mind  —  I'm  speaking  in  confidence,  Mr.  Derek, 
because  we  think  the  same  about  this  business.  And  you  may 
have  some  influence  with  your  brother." 

"No  fear.    He  thinks  I'm  a  scaremonger  already." 

"  That's  to  say  he  suspects  you  of  —  telling  the  truth !  No 
disrespect  to  Mr.  Blount.  He's  with  the  majority  and  in  good 
company.  Which  doesn't  alter  facts." 

Derek  took  a  long  pull  at  his  cigar.  "  You  hear  a  good  bit 
of  talk,  I  suppose?" 

"More  than  I  care  about.  Of  course  I  don't  swallow  it  all. 
But  I  have  my  private  suspicions  that  some  of  our  villages  are 
becoming  centres  of  information;  and  I'm  afraid  there's  a  deal 
of  eyewash  about  this  internment  business.  We  have  more  than 
a  sprinkling  of  fishy  characters,  here  and  there.  But  whatever 
they're  up  to,  they've  wit  enough  to  keep  just  within  the 
law." 

•  "  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  the  law  doesn't  cloak  more  sins  than 
it  punishes,"  was  Derek's  comment  on  that  last;  and  his  tone 
was  as  guarded  as  his  words. 

"Frankly,  Malcolm,"  he  added  when  they  had  smoked  awhile 
in  silence,  "have  you  any  reason  to  think  Schonberg  is  connected 
with  all  this?" 

Malcolm  screwed  his  large  mouth  into  a  characteristic  grim 
ace.  "  Frankly,  Mr.  Derek,  I  haven't  an  ounce  of  reliable  proof. 
All  I  know  is  —  he's  as  clever  as  the  Devil.  A  blood  relation  to 
that  gentleman,  in  my  opinion.  Lately  he's  developed  a  keen 
interest  in  Hampshire  —  on  his  son's  account,  of  course!  Scoots 
all  over  the  County  in  his  runabout  car.  Luxuries  for  hospitals. 


264  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Drives  for  soldiers.  I  have  heard  that  some  of  them  jib  at  his 
name  and  accent." 

"It's  only  on  this  side  that  Germany  still  receives  'most 
favoured  nation'  treatment,"  Derek  remarked  with  an  incisive 
quietness  worthy  of  his  father.  "However,  I'm  glad  you're 
satisfied  with  Karl." 

"  I  am  —  on  the  whole.  But  he's  a  close  fish.  He  puzzles 
me  sometimes." 

"Wish  I  could  do  more  myself."  Derek  glanced  at  his  wrist- 
watch.  "I  ought  to  be  getting  on  to  Ashbourne.  If  I  wasn't 
cycling,  I'd  like  to  go  over  Burnt  Hill.  Any  brilliant  results  up 
there  yet?" 

"If  there  are,  we  don't  hear  of  them.  But  we  hear  a  good 
many  other  things  — " 

"Whats0r/of  things?"  Derek  asked  sharply.  But  Malcolm 
was  caution  incarnate. 

"The  sort  it's  wisest  to  take  with  a  good  pinch  of  salt:  — 
explosives,  invasion  plans  and  signalling  with  lights.  Bridgeman 
may  be  a  harmless  old  cove.  But  the  man  and  woman  who 
run  his  house  are  aliens  —  of  more  than  doubtful  origin.  I'd 
clear  out  the  place  at  short  notice,  if  it  rested  with  me." 

Derek  rose  impatiently,  walked  to  the  window  and  back  to 
the  hearthrug,  where  he  took  up  his  stand.  "At  least  the  house 
might  be  searched,"  he  broke  out.  "  Have  you  spoken  to  Van?  " 

"More  than  once,"  Malcolm  answered  in  a  level  tone.  "Mr. 
Blount  considers  the  old  man's  connection  with  Burltons  is 
sufficient  guarantee  —  but  I  hear  Schonberg  has  very  large  in 
terests  in  that  firm.  One  comes  upon  their  cursed  ramifications 
everywhere." 

Derek  merely  nodded.  On  the  whole,  he  thought  it  wiser  to 
say  nothing. 

"I  have  also  heard — "  Malcolm  went  on,  then  checked 
himself  and  sat  thoughtfully  rubbing  his  chin. 

"Well  —  what  now?" 

The  land  agent  turned  a  keen  eye  upon  him.  "You'll  get 
thinking  I  waste  all  my  days  in  gossip.  But  —  has  Mr.  Blount 
spoken  to  you  about  this  hospital  business?" 


SMOKE  AND  FLAME  265 

"Yes.    It's  a  good  notion." 

"Excellent  —  if  Lord  Avonleigh  was  at  home.  But  when  I 
find  people  hinting  that  Schonberg  is  at  the  back  of  things,  it's 
one  more  than  I  can  stand,  Mr.  Derek.  I'd  like  to  be  able  to 
contradict  it  flat — " 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  do  so,"  Derek  exclaimed  with  unex 
pected  warmth.  "It's  insufferable.  As  for  the  rest  —  I'll 
speak  of  it  next  time  I  see  Van." 

"Are  you  not  going  on  there  now?  Mr.  Blount's  down  this 
week-end;  and  I  believe  Schonberg's  with  him." 

Derek  tried  to  look  as  if  he  knew  all  about  it.  "I'm  for 
Wynchcombe  Friars  myself,"  he  said.  "But  I'll  ride  over  and 
have  a  look  at  the  old  place  —  while  it's  still  recognizable!" 

He  picked  up  his  cap  and  stick :  but  he  could  not  leave  with 
out  putting  the  crucial  question:  "Have  you  ever  —  written 
about  all  this  to  my  father?  " 

"No.  I  haven't.  Yet  I  feel  —  he  ought  to  know.  If  only 
there  was  something  definite  to  lay  hold  of  —  if  I  could  do 
anything.  But  —  well  —  I've  never  been  on  confidential  terms 
with  your  brother.  It's  the  worst  of  luck  that  Lord  Avonleigh 
should  be  away  just  now;  and  —  please  don't  think  I'm  criti 
cizing  him  —  but  I  can't  help  wishing  he  had  left  Mr.  Blount 
free  to  enjoy  himself,  and  left  me  free  to  devote  my  energies  to 
his  interests." 

Derek's  complete  agreement  could,  unfortunately,  not  be  ex 
pressed:  and  he  rode  on  to  Ashbourne  with  a  fine  confusion  of 
feelings  in  his  heart,  not  least  among  them  an  increasing  curiosity 
about  Karl. 

The  country  he  knew  and  loved  lay  dreaming  in  a  fugitive 
burst  of  April  sunshine.  And  the  sunshine  of  April  has  a  crys 
talline  quality;  a  transience  —  like  the  beauty  of  youth  or  of 
half-open  buds  —  that  May  and  June  at  their  most  radiant  can 
never  recapture.  But  though  Derek  seldom  failed  of  response  to 
the  moods  of  earth,  to-day  the  voice  of  Malcolm,  the  things  he 
had  said  and  left  unsaid,  filled  his  brain  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  else. 

That  Van  would  wink  at  a  good  deal,  sooner  than  bestir  him- 


266  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

self,  went  without  saying:  but  Schonberg  and  Avonleigh  .  .  .in 
credible  !  The  mere  suspicion  of  it  infuriated  him ;  but  he  knew 
from  painful  experience,  that  it  was  sheer  waste  of  nervous 
energy  to  lose  one's  temper  with  Van.  He  would  ride  out  in  the 
morning  and  simply  beg  his  brother  not  to  let  Schonberg  become 
a  prominent  feature  in  the  new  scheme.  That,  he  decided, 
would  be  the  most  tactful  line  to  take. 

Old  Gosling  —  rubicund  and  elate  —  looked  not  a  day  older: 
nor  had  his  famous  veal  pie  and  home-brewed  ale  lost  their 
savour.  They  supped  royally  off  both,  while  they  talked  of 
Canada  and  the  w-ay  young  Bert  had  come  on. 

"Looks  like  'e'll  turn  out  the  pick  of  the  bunch  yet!"  the 
old  man  concluded,  with  pride  unfeigned.  "And  thar  was  7 
thinking  Vd  mostly  got  wind  in  'is  'ead.  An'  thar  was  you 
knowin'  the  lad  a  sight  better  than  'is  old  father,  'oo  fancied 
'isself  a  bloomin'  wiseacre!" 

"Just  a  lucky  guess  on  my  part,"  said  modest  Derek.  "The 
young  know  each  other,  by  instinct,  as  the  young  and  the  old 
very  seldom  do." 

"Never  you  spoke  no  truer  word,  sir.  The  deuce  of  it  is  the 
young  do  suffer  with  a  notion  that  they  got  the  answer  to  all  the 
riddles  o'  the  universe  neatly  tucked  in  their  weskit  pockets. 
And  the  old  'un,  knowin'  thar  ain't  no  answer  to  most  on  'em, 
gits  thinkin'  the  young  'uns  be  fools.  An'  often  as  not  'e  finds 
Vs  bin  another  kind  o'  fool  'isself,  for  'is  pains!  But  it's  a  pore 
kind  o'  father  that  won't  take  it  smilin',  when  'e's  beat,  so  to 
say,  by  'is  own  son.  Paid  up  'is  money  an'  all.  I'm  right  glad 
you  took  it,  Mr.  Derek  —  on  principle." 

Derek  laughed.  "I'd  much  rather  have  refused  it  on  princi 
ple!  But  Bert's  nearly  as  obstinate  as  I  am." 

They  spoke  of  the  Canadian  wife  and  of  Gosling's  unseen 
grandson;  but  Derek  refrained  from  any  allusion  to  local  tales. 
Given  tune,  these  would  irresistibly  emerge. 

They  did  emerge,  over  pipes  and  a  log  fire.  For  Gosling 
owned  a  cousin  in  the  County  Police.  He  also  made  a  point  of 
being  friendly  with  the  men  on  the  spot,  who  were  doing  their 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  267 

loyal  best  under  somewhat  discouraging  conditions ;  and  he  more 
than  hinted  at  mysterious  influences  that  stultified  their  vigi 
lance  and  zeal. 

"The  Lord  above  knows  old  Goslin'  ain't  no  tin-pot  demi- 
krat,"  said  he,  dismissing  such  deluded  gentry  to  perdition 
with  a  gesture  of  his  pipe.  "  But  bein'  British,  I  favour  fair  play 
for  'igh  an'  low.  An'  what  I  say  is  thar's  something  suspicious 
about  the  'ole  affair,  when  the  nets  we  be  spreadin'  to  catch 
them  Germans-in-sheep's-clothing,  do  some'ow  —  quite  inner- 
cent-like,  let  the  biggest  fishes  slip  through.  No  fisherman 
in  'is  senses  ever  made  a  net  o'  that  onnatural  pattern:  nor 
never  would  —  ef  'e  meant  business.  You  take  my  mean- 
in',  sir?" 

Derek  was  frowning  thoughtfully  at  the  fire.  "There's  more 
to  it,"  said  he,  "than  a  plain  man  can  fathom." 

"Thar's  money  to  it,  Mr.  Derek — /y-nance.  Once  'twas 
Kings  as  ruled  nations.  Now  'tis  dirty  bits  o'  metal  —  a  dam 
poor  exchange  in  my  'umble  way  o'  thinkin'.  Ef  the  Devil 
'isself  took  a  mind  to  visit  this  earth  'is  natural  garment  'ud  be 
Treasury  notes  —  if  you  arst  me !  I  'appen  to  know  about  one 
o'  these  blokes  —  'oo  shall  be  nameless.  The  p'lice  'ave  in 
formation  enough  to  intern  'im  three  times  over.  But  d'you 
think  they  can  lay  a  finger  to  'im  —  not  they." 

"Do  you  mean  —  hereabouts?"  Derek  asked  with  studied 
quietness. 

"Well  —  'ereabouts  an'  thereabouts.  My  friend  the  Con 
stable  says  'e's  kind  o'  Yu-bikewy,  like  the  Rawl  Artillery!  On'y 
one  place  you  can  take  your  dick  you  won't  find  him.  That's 
be'ind  barbed  wire."  Gosling's  bleared  eye  wanked  significantly. 
"Mebbe  you  can  guess  'oo  the  gentleman  is;  but  we're  on  the 
safe  side  namin'  no  names." 

"Quite  so,"  Derek  agreed  gravely.  "And  you'll  be  safer  still, 
if  you  discount  about  fifty  per  cent  of  the  tales  you  hear  —  even 
on  good  authority.  Nothing  would  vex  my  father  more  than 
that  Avonleigh  should  become  the  centre  for  that  sort  of  thing." 

"No  more  it  would  'a  done  —  ef  'is  Lordship  'ad  bin  'ere, 
Gawd  bless  'im,"  Gosling  ventured  very  low. 


268  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Derek  could  neither  deny  nor  affirm  that  self-evident  remark: 
so  he  said  nothing. 

He  felt  angrier  than  ever  with  Van:  and  his  sleep  that  night, 
in  Mrs.  Gosling's  four-poster,  was  neither  so  sound  nor  so  re 
freshing  as  on  the  night  of  his  great  decision. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Reality  is  the  offender;  delusion  the  treasure  of  which  we  are  robbed. 

GEORGE  MEREDITH 

BEFORE  starting  next  morning,  Derek  telephoned  to  Van  and 
received  a  friendly  invitation  to  'roll  along.'  Then  he  ven 
tured  a  question:  "Is  Schonberg  there?" 

"He'll  be  down  this  afternoon.  We're  fixing  up  hospital 
plans.  Can't  you  stay?" 

"No,  thanks.    I'm  for  Wynchcombe  Friars." 

He  left  Gosling  with  a  renewed  injunction  not  to  give  Avon- 
leigh  a  bad  name  by  letting  the  'Arms'  become  a  centre  for  spy 
talk. 

"If  you  do  get  hold  of  reliable  information,  pass  it  on  to 
Mr.  Malcolm  or  me.  Don't  make  capital  out  of  it  at  the 
bar." 

The  good  man  beamed  on  him.  "You  trust  old  Goslin',  sir. 
Goslin'  'e  were  born,  but  'e  ain't  growed  into  a  Goose,  so  far  as 
'uman  eye  can  see!  But  —  serious,  sir  —  I  wouldn't  go  ag'in' 
your  wishes  nor  vex  'is  Lordship  for  a  mine  o'  gold." 

"Wonder  if  I've  done  an  ounce  of  good,"  Derek  reflected  un- 
hopefully  as  he  rode  away.  "They're  both  right.  Father  ought 
to  be  here.  But  who  the  devil  is  going  to  tell  him  so?  " 

The  nearer  he  drew  to  Avonleigh,  the  less  he  relished  a  re 
newal  of  the  Schonberg  argument.  For  he  resented  fiercely,  if 
foolishly,  the  mere  idea  of  the  man's  presence  at  Avonleigh ;  and 
he  felt  too  hot  over  the  whole  affair  to  be  any  match  for  his  cool- 
tempered  elder  brother,  who  had  been  consistently  favoured, 
and  given  every  chance;  and  who  was  repaying  his  father's 
implicit  trust  in  this  very  doubtful  fashion  .  .  . 

To-day,  as  on  that  earlier  occasion,  he  chose  his  favourite 
approach  through  the  Park.  Here  birds  were  singing  and  leaf 


270  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

buds  breaking.  Daffodils  and  primroses  gleamed  like  patches  of 
sunshine.  Oaks  and  beeches  had  not  yet  lost  the  austere  beauty 
of  their  winter  outlines;  and  a  lively  wind  rippled  over  the  grass, 
dappling  it  with  restless  shadows. 

Alone  with  Nature,  he  felt  blessedly  at  ease.  Up  there,  in  the 
house,  he  had  difficult  things  to  say  and  very  little  idea  how  he 
meant  to  say  them.  Under  his  own  great  beech  tree  he  sat  a 
while  on  a  tussock  of  moss;  forgetting  Schonberg  and  the  War 
and  doubts  of  Van;  seeing  ghosts,  and  marvelling  that  places 
and  things  inanimate  should  strike  such  deep  roots  into  the  heart 
of  man.  They  would  be  lucky  devils,  those  invalid  officers  whom 
Fate  sent  to  Avonleigh.  Derek  could  imagine  no  place  better 
fitted  to  heal  the  mental  and  physical  wounds  of  war.  But  for 
this  confounded  German,  how  keenly  he  would  have  entered 
into  the  whole  idea!  The  mutual  interest  would  have  been  a 
real  link  with  Van. 

Now  it  seemed  more  than  likely  to  breed  discord  and  spoil 
half  the  pleasure  of  his  few  months  at  home. 

The  great  oak  door  stood  open;  and  in  the  hall  Derek  encoun 
tered  Van's  living  shadow  Franz  —  now  Francis  —  the  im 
maculate  Bavarian-Swiss,  whom  Derek  regarded  as  an  annoying 
proof  of  Van's  refusal  to  realize  that  this  wrar  was  no  mere  clash 
of  armies,  but  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 

"Where  shall  I  find  Mr.  Blount?"  he  asked;  and  Francis  con 
ducted  him  to  the  morning  room. 

On  the  low  wrindow-seat,  in  a  flood  of  sunshine,  sat  Van,  with 
his  Daily  Telegraph  and  cigarette.  Just  above  his  head  drooped 
a  spray  of  Gloire  de  Dijon,  and  the  young  leaves  against  the 
light  gleamed  like  drops  of  wine.  To  Derek,  his  mother's 
sanctum  was  among  the  least  familiar  rooms  in  the  house.  It 
was  linked  chiefly  with  the  poignant  memory  of  that  other  April 
morning  sixteen  years  ago.  And  now,  as  the  door  swung  open, 
the  whole  thing  rushed  back  on  him  with  a  curious  shock.  There 
sat  Van  in  the  window,  his  attitude  almost  identical,  even  to  the 
familiar  movement  of  his  foot.  And  here  was  he,  once  more  on 
the  point  of  outraging  Authority,  with  every  prospect  of  being 
metaphorically  scalped  for  his  pains. 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  271 

The  dream  sensation  was  gone  in  a  flash.  Van  had  risen 
with  a  flourish  of  his  paper. 

"In  the  humble  guise  of  a  private  soldier  the  wanderer  re 
turns  to  his  ancestral  halls!"  said  he,  in  mellifluous  recitative. 
"This  printed  rag  should  by  rights  be  a  Union  Jack.  But  you 
sprang  the  great  occasion  on  me  unawares.  You've  quite  a 
talent  in  that  line,  old  boy.  Is  it  done  for  effect  ?  " 

"Sure  thing!"  Derek  answered  with  becoming  gravity. 
"Carefully  thought  out  weeks  in  advance." 

Van  laughed.    "Dry  up,  you  young  rotter.    Have  a  smoke? " 

Derek  helped  himself  and  murmured:  "Has  a  cigarette  ever 
been  smoked  in  this  room  before?" 

"Occasionally  —  by  me!  And  the  dear  soul  isn't  here  to 
be  distressed  by  the  fragrance  of  my  Russians.  So  —  what 
matter?" 

The  argument  was  typical  of  Van's  moral  code;  and  the 
thought  occurred  to  Derek:  "Father  isn't  here  to  be  distressed 
by  Schonberg's  guttural  accent,  so  —  what  matter?  "  He  sank 
into  a  big  chair  near  the  window. 

A  few  belated  scillas  starred  the  lawn  across  the  pathway,  and 
right  opposite  him  was  the  carved  table  where  the  great  vase  had 
stood  in  splendid  isolation.  Now  only  a  couple  of  novels  lay 
there;  but  his  inner  eye  sawr,  clear  as  life,  the  ghost  of  the  mur 
dered  treasure  and  of  his  own  childish  figure,  fatally  defiant  to 
the  last.  The  sensations  of  that  April  day  had  bitten  deep 
into  his  soul.  He  wondered  whether  Van  had  forgotten  all 
about  it. 

The  next  moment,  as  if  answering  his  thought,  Van  laid 
down  his  paper  and  remarked:  "  'Member  the  poor  old  Satsuma, 
Dirks?" 

Derek  gave  him  a  quick  look.    "Not  likely  I'd  forget." 
"The  punishment  stuck,  eh?" 

Derek's  mouth  twitched  under  his  moustache;  and  Van  looked 
down  at  him  with  affectionate  concern.  "Mother  was  a  shade 
too  down  on  you.  But  she  had  a  particular  affection  for  the 
murdered  vase  — " 

"That's  enough,  thanks—" 


272  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"  What  the  deuce  — !    D  'you  still  mind  — ?  " 

"I've  always  minded  —  about  Mother,"  Derek  admitted 
awkwardly. 

"Poor  old  chap!  Yet  you  hardly  ever  move  a  foot  in  that 
direction  without  bringing  it  down  in  the  wrong  place.  Anyway, 
she  was  jolly  pleased  to  see  you  again  the  other  day." 

"So  I  gathered,"  said  Derek  curtly  —  and  changed  the  sub 
ject.  "Will  she  really  let  this  room  be  desecrated  by  stray 
males  and  possible  pipes  ?" 

"Well,  she  isn't  exactly  keen.  Perhaps  we  can  consecrate  it 
to  visitors  and  tea-parties." 

"And  Father's  library  —  you  won't  use  that?" 

"Why  not?    It  would  make  a  capital  card-room." 

"But  —  all  his  private  things  —  it  doesn't  seem  fair.  If  he 
were  at  home,  it  would  be  different." 

"  Well,  he  isn't.  So  we  must  do  the  best  we  can.  —  You  seem 
dead  nuts  on  Father  these  days." 

"Yes  —  I  never  properly  knew  him  before.  I  wish  he  looked 
fitter.  But  he's  got  a  ticklish  job  out  there;  and  the  whole 
European  situation  is  badly  on  his  mind.  One  can  see  how  he's 
aching  to  be  at  home  —  I  do  think  his  own  particular  room  might 
be  sacred,  Van." 

"Right-o,  you  persistent  beggar.  I'll  put  it  before  the  Com 
mittee  as  your  contribution." 

"What  Committee  —  where?" 

"Here  —  to-morrow."  He  proceeded  to  explain  that  the 
select  Committee  of  Arrangements  was  arriving  that  afternoon  : 
seven  of  it,  including  himself  and  Schonberg,  Ina  and  her 
particular  pal,  Sir  James  Bellew,  the  eminent  author,  whose 
pen  and  purse  were  at  his  country's  service  for  the  duration  of 
the  War. 

"Are  you  in  the  chair?"  Derek  asked  quietly. 

"Yes  —  on  this  occasion." 

"Only  on  this  occasion?" 

"What  are  you  fussing  about,  young  'un?  I'm  not  lord  ot 
infinite  leisure.  When  I  can't  attend,  Schonberg  has  kindly 
promised  to  act  for  me.  He's  a  past-master  at  the  game." 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  273 

"Schonberg!"  Amazement  and  anger  sounded  in  Derek's 
voice.  "A  foreigner  and  a  rank  outsider!  Why  the  devil  — 

Van  reddened  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  "No  need  to  invoke 
the  devil,"  he  said.  Annoyance  intensified  his  drawl.  "Are 
you  thinking  it  ought  to  be  yourself?" 

"Of  course  it  ought,"  Derek  flamed  back  at  him.  "But 
that's  impossible  — 

"Yes  —  on  every  account,"  drawled  Van.  "You've  no  tact. 
You'd  flourish  the  undraped  truth  in  their  faces  and  set  'em  all 
squabbling.  Personally,  I  detest  committees.  Too  much  sweat ; 
too  little  result." 

He  was  swerving  from  the  point,  but  Derek  would  not  have  it. 

"Which  is  to  say  —  Schonberg  will  practically  run  the  show," 
he  said  in  a  repressed  voice.  "I  call  that  a  bit  too  thick." 

"You  can  call  it  what  you  damn  well  please.  Schonberg's 
simply  a  generous  contributor.  He's  up  to  the  eyes  in  really  big 
things;  and  any  help  he  is  good  enough  to  offer  I  shall  accept 
gratefully.  But  it's  not  his  show  —  nor  yours  either.  So  just 
drop  it,  old  thing,  and  don't  be  a  ruddy  fool.  I  thought  we  agreed 
not  to  quarrel  over  him  — 

It  was  so  reasonable,  so  plausible,  that  Derek  at  once  began 
to  feel  in  the  wrong:  — a  sensation  he  knew  too  well.  But  the 
cooler  atmosphere  restored  his  chance  of  making  the  plea  he  had 
in  mind. 

Heaving  himself  out  of  the  chair,  he  perched  on  the  arm  of 
it  and  confronted  Van. 

"Heaven  knows  /  don't  want  to  quarrel,"  he  said  placably. 
"And  if  you're  dead  certain  you  can  trust  Schonberg,  I  suppose 
you've  made  the  whole  position  quite  clear  to  Father.  Have  you 
convinced  him  —  may  I  ask?  —  that  your  rather  inappropriate 
partner  in  good  works  is  a  model  of  all  the  virtues?" 

Van  raised  a  shapely  hand  to  stifle  a  yawn. 

"  See  here,  Dirks,  if  you're  really  on  the  peace  tack,  it  wouldn't 
be  a  bad  move  to  try  minding  your  own  business  by  way  of  a 
change!  Kindly  file  for  reference  the  fact  that  while  I'm  master 
here,  I  do  what  I  think  fit.  The  account  of  my  stewardship  is 
due  to  Father  —  and  no  one  else.  So  it's  sheer  waste  of  breath 


274  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

slinging  the  Shorter  Catechism  at  my  head.  As  to  Schonberg, 
I've  found  him  a  gentleman  to  deal  with  and  I  shall  continue  to 
treat  him  as  such.  On  that  point  we  must  agree  to  differ." 

Derek,  maddened  by  Van's  skill  in  evading  the  direct  ques 
tion,  simply  inclined  his  head. 

"I  suppose  I  have  leave  to  suggest,"  he  remarked  with  his 
father's  silken  quietness,  "that,  in  your  own  interests  —  not  to 
mention  Avonleigh  —  it  might  be  as  well  to  walk  warily,  even 
with  a  '  gentleman '  of  that  nationality.  Of  course,  you're  boss 
of  the  show;  but  .  .  .  fact  is  ...  I'm  feeling  a  bit  worried. 
I  slept  at  the  Arms  last  night  and  I've  seen  Malcolm  this 
morning  — 

"Ah  — that  accounts!" 

"It  doesn't.  Give  me  half  a  chance,  Van.  You  can't  deny 
that  Malcolm's  in  a  position  to  hear  more  talk  about  local  affairs 
than  you  are;  and  as  he's  shrewd  enough  to  discount  a  good  deal 
of  it,  the  remainder  may  be  worth  serious  consideration,  in  these 
critical  times." 

Under  Van's  suave  smile  there  lurked  the  suspicion  of  a  sneer. 

"Really,  old  chap,  you're  hugely  edifying.  But  I  humbly 
recommend  some  more  innocuous  amusement,  when  you're  out 
'on  pass/  than  encouraging  Malcolm  and  Gosling  to  repeat  the 
rank  rot  that's  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  with  additional 
tit-bits  every  time.  If  Gosling's  going  to  make  a  nuisance  of 
himself  over  Schonberg,  he'll  receive  a  very  unpleasant  shock 
one  of  these  days.  He's  an  arrant  gossip  and  a  born  liar." 

"He's  not  a  liar!"  Derek  retorted,  hotly. 

It  might  be  waste  of  nerve  force  losing  his  temper,  but  Van's 
coolness  and  condescension  were  goading  him  to  the  other  ex 
treme;  and  the  veiled  threat  against  Gosling  startled  him  out 
of  his  self-control. 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  about  an  unpleasant  shock?" 
he  added,  with  an  out-thrust  of  his  chin  that  should  have  warned 
Van  to  go  cautiously  if  he  wanted  to  keep  the  peace. 

But  he,  too,  was  more  ruffled,  more  uneasy,  than  he  cared  to 
show. 

"I  mean"  —  he  answered  between  puffs  of  a  fresh  cigarette  — 


SMOKE  AND  FLAME  275 

"  a  gentle  reminder  that  the  Arms  is  not  his  own  property,  in  the 
shape  of  notice  to  quit." 

Derek  changed  colour. 

"  Good  Lord  —  you'd  never  play  such  a  low-down  game  — 

"I  should  do  whatever  I  thought  best  for  Avonleigh,  even  at 
the  risk  of  rousing  your  righteous  indignation!  The  old  sinner 
knows  he  can't  fool  me;  and  if  he  fancies  it'll  serve  his  turn  to 
butter  you  up,  he'll  find  himself  mightily  mistaken." 

Derek's  smothered  exclamation  was  dismissed  with  a  gesture. 

"All  I  can  say  is,  he  laid  it  on  with  a  trowel  last  time  I  saw 
him.  Some  fancy  tale  about  your  giving  young  Bert  a  leg  up. 
I  didn't  listen  to  half,  nor  believe  one-third." 

"Well,  as  it  happens,  he  spoke  the  truth." 

Derek  was  annoyed  with  Gosling,  but  the  temptation  to  re 
fute  Van's  complacent  scepticism  was  too  strong  for  him. 

Van  removed  his  cigarette  and  scrutinized  his  younger  brother 
with  narrowed  eyes. 

"Blest  if  I  can  see  what  call  you  have  to  go  playing  Provi 
dence  to  young  Gosling.  It's  bad  policy  —  and  it's  none  of 
your  business." 

"It's  none  of  yours,  either,  what  I  choose  to  do  with  my  own 
money." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  —  in  a  case  like  this.  What  the  dickens 
are  you  getting  at,  Dirks,  sucking  up  to  Father's  tenants  on 
the  quiet?  In  my  position,  I  consider  I've  the  right  to  ask." 

"You  can  ask  till  all's  blue.  I'm  damned  if  you'll  get  an 
answer." 

Derek's  hand  closed  sharply  on  the  back  of  the  chair.  Never 
before  had  he  felt  like  hitting  out  at  his  suavely  provoking  elder 
brother.  In  the  logging  world  he  had  learnt  to  argue  with  his 
fists;  and  that  seemed  the  only  form  of  argument  calculated  to 
shake  Van  out  of  his  serene  self-assurance.  But  the  earlier 
years  of  control  prevailed. 

"I  warn  you  fairly,"  he  went  on,  with  a  straight  look.  "I 
won't  swallow  insults  —  from  you  or  any  one.  If  you're  in 
capable  of  doing  another  fellow  a  good  turn  on  impulse  —  I'm 
sorry  for  you.  I've  been  friends  with  old  Gosling  since  I  was  a 


276  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

kid.  He's  the  goods,  right  enough,  even  if  he  does  own  a  little 
weakness  for  his  neighbours'  affairs.  Father  hasn't  a  more  loyal 
and  devoted  tenant  —  I  don't  believe  he  would  forgive  you." 

Van  frowTied  impatiently. 

"Oh,  shut  it,  for  God's  sake.  I'm  fed  up  with  your  super 
fluous  concern  for  Father.  If  Gosling  and  his  gossips  make  Ash- 
bourne  a  centre  for  spy  talk  and  'hidden  hand'  fairy  tales,  he'll 
clear  out  neck  and  crop;  and  I'll  square  myself  all  right,  no  fear. 
Nothing  Father  would  dislike  more." 

"Quite  so  —  except  the  thing  itself,"  Derek  retorted,  unable 
to  control  his  rising  wrath.  "You're  fooling  round  over  the 
shadow.  I'm  after  the  substance.  That's  our  main  point  of 
difference.  You'll  come  down  like  a  ton  of  coals  on  Gosling's 
harmless  zeal;  but  you  wink  the  other  eye  at  Burnt  Hill 
House.  We  underlings  mustn't  talk  about  spies  and  secret  Ger 
man  influence,  because  it  upsets  your  digestion.  But  you  swal 
low  Schonberg  and  his  'contributions'  without  blinking." 

At  that  Van's  eyebrows  twitched,  and  Derek,  seeing  that  he 
had  made  a  hit,  pushed  it  home. 

"If  you  do  the  kind  of  thing  that  breeds  talk,  you  must  accept 
the  results,  and  it's  rank  injustice  to  jump  on  the  other  parties. 
I  heard  this  morning  that  Schonberg  and  his  money  are  said 
to  be  at  the  back  of  the  whole  hospital  scheme.  Of  course  I 
contradicted  it  flat  and  told  Malcolm  to  do  the  same.  But  it's 
the  sort  of  thing  people  will  say;  and  I  felt  you  ought  to  know." 

Van  moistened  his  lips.  It  was  not  exactly  pleasant,  having 
spurned  rumours,  to  find  himself  confronted  with  the  truth. 

"Very  thoughtful  of  you,"  he  said,  in  a  constrained  voice. 
"And  as  usual,  a  trifle  superfluous.  I'll  give  Malcolm  a  piece 
of  my  mind  on  Monday.  I  know  perfectly  well  what  I'm  up  to, 
thanks,  though  you  mayn't  suppose  it.  Besides  —  what  the 
devil  can  you  know  of  Schonberg?" 

To  that  direct  question,  Derek  was  not  the  man  to  give  an 
evasive  answer. 

"I  know  his  type,  and  what  they're  mostly  after  over  here. 
I  also  know  more  than  you  do  about  Burltons.  The  old  man's 
done  for  himself,  though  he  doesn't  see  it  yet.  I'm  not  talking 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  277 

hot  air,  Van.  Knocking  around  the  world,  I've  picked  up  some 
queer  facts  about '  Deutschthum '  that  don't  come  your  way  in 
polite  London  circles.  It's  the  same  tale  everywhere;  the  same 
devilish  game,  worked  from  the  big  brain  centre  in  Berlin. 
They  vary  it  to  suit  the  little  weaknesses  of  their  friends;  and 
over  here,  naturalization's  the  ticket.  So  we're  favoured  with 
Schonberg  and  Co.  Of  course  he's  colossally  clever.  Knows 
just  how  to  make  himself  useful.  But  I  tell  you  straight,  if 
you're  not  jolly  careful  to  keep  independent  of  him,  you  may 
find  that,  in  return,  he's  been  making  use  of  you  —  for  his  own 
ends—" 

At  that  Van  sprang  to  his  feet,  anger  and  fear  contending 
within  him. 

"Damn  you  —  shut  your  mouth!  Because  I'm  a  good- 
tempered  chap,  you  think  you  can  come  here  and  spout  half 
penny-rag  melodrama  and  vilify  my  friends.  I  tell  you 
straight,  it's  more  than  I  can  stick.  As  you  evidently  can't 
contain  yourself,  and  you're  death  on  melodrama,  all  I  have  to 
say  is  —  there's  the  door!" 

Though  shaken  out  of  himself,  the  last  was  not  quite  seri 
ously  meant,  as  his  extravagant  gesture  implied.  But  if  Derek 
had  gone  too  far  in  one  direction,  Van  had  gone  too  far  in  the 
other. 

Derek  flashed  a  look  at  him,  rose  and  walked  quickly  away. 

"  I  say  —  Dirks  —  you  young  fool  —        Van  called  after  him. 

But  he  did  not  or  would  not  hear:  and  Van  was  not  in  the 
mood  to  follow  him.  It  was  a  horrid  nuisance,  for  he  was  really 
fond  of  Derek;  but  the  boy  had  brought  it  on  himself  and  was 
hopelessly  unmanageable,  when  roused. 

So  he  remained  there,  on  the  window-seat,  feeling  jarred  and 
thoroughly  uncomfortable;  for  Derek's  talk,  however  exagger 
ated,  had  skimmed  unpleasantly  close  to  the  truth  .  .  . 

And  Derek,  coasting  down  the  drive,  was  feeling  only  a  few 
degrees  less  uncomfortable  and  more  deeply  unhappy.  He  had 
stumbled,  as  usual,  into  the  very  impasse  he  most  desired  to 
avoid.  Worse,  he  was  distracted  on  Van's  account,  as  well  as 


278  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

his  own.  That  his  mild-mannered  brother  should  have  spoken 
so  to  him,  seemed  proof  positive  that  his  suspicions  were  justified, 
his  warning  vain.  In  the  heat  of  the  moment,  he  swore  he  would 
not  come  near  Avonleigh  again.  And  he  had  promised  himself 
the  pleasure  of  a  tour  through  the  house  and  grounds  while  all 
was  yet  unchanged  .  .  . 

He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  noticed  a  familiar-looking  figure 
ahead  of  him,  and  recognized  Karl. 

"Why  isn't  he  up  there  with  Van?"  was  his  instant  thought. 
"They  don't  seem  nearly  so  thick  as  they  used  to  be." 

Karl,  who  had  never  interested  him  much,  now  seemed  some 
thing  of  a  problem.  He  had  certainly  been  unlike  himself  at  the 
Carlton.  And  suddenly  a  light  dawned  on  Derek.  Was  Schon- 
berg  the  key  to  the  problem?  Reawakened  curiosity  eased  his 
pain. 

"I'll  try  and  draw  him  out,"  thought  he.  "See  what  I  can 
make  of  him." 

So  he  overtook  Karl,  dismounted,  and  shook  hands.  Then 
they  walked  on  together,  talking  chiefly  of  Avonleigh.  He  was 
keen,  frank,  and  friendly;  a  different  man.  But  not  a  word  of 
Avonleigh  Hospital  or  of  Van;  and  Derek  decided  to  try  the 
effect,  in  much  the  same  spirit  that  an  experimental  scientist 
drops  a  new  chemical  into  his  solution. 

"I've  just  been  up  at  the  Hall,"  he  remarked.  "They've  a 
great  Committee  on  to-morrow." 

Karl  looked  politely  interested.  "I'm  dining  there  to-night," 
was  all  he  said. 

"I  should  have  thought  you'd  be  gracing  the  Committee  as 
well." 

"No.  I'm  not  so  indispensable  as  all  that!  Besides  —  Van's 
Londoners  might  jib  at  two  Schonbergs  on  a  small  Committee. 
I  wouldn't  blame  them  if  they  did." 

He  spoke  lightly;  and  Derek  would  have  liked  to  know  wrhether 
a  seat  had  been  refused  or  not  offered ;  but  felt  it  would  be  tact 
less  to  press  the  point.  Karl's  last  remark,  more  naturally 
spoken,  surprised  and  pleased  him;  and  as  the  Hospital  subject 
was  a  '  frost,'  he  decided  to  try  rumours  about  Burnt  Hill  House. 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  279 

Karl,  it  transpired,  was  neither  ignorant  nor  contemptuous. 
His  manner  was  at  once  alert  and  guarded,  lest  his  own  anxiety 
should  imply  any  reflection  on  Van. 

"It's  only  natural  they  should  talk,"  he  admitted.  "Cer 
tainly  the  woman's  Swiss;  and  the  man  says  he  is.  I  confess  I'd 
be  glad  if  Van  would  bestir  himself  a  little.  I  did  speak  of  it 
once,  but  he  won't  have  Bridgeman  worried  and  he  hates  any 
sort  of  fuss.  So — !"  He  spread  out  his  hands  expressively. 
"After  all  —  it's  his  business.  But  he's  down  here  so  seldom. 
Never  knocks  round  the  place  like  your  father  did.  Of  course, 
there's  Malcolm.  But  they  clash  a  bit,  don't  they?  " 

"Yes.  They've  always  clashed.  But  Van  thinks  no  end  of 
you,  Karl." 

The  younger  Schonberg  glanced  sidelong  at  Van's  very  indi 
vidual  brother. 

"  I  appreciate  the  compliment !  And  I  do  my  best  to  live  up  to 
it.  Things  were  easy  enough  before  the  War.  But  now  —  "  He 
sucked  in  his  lips  and  let  them  out  with  a  smack.  "  Well  —  we're 
in  a  difficult  position  some  of  us,  who  have  German  names  and 
English  sympathies." 

"It  must  be  —  confoundedly  difficult." 

The  genuine  sympathy  in  Derek's  tone  moved  Karl  to  further 
frankness. 

"Look  at  myself,  for  instance.  Do  what  I  will,  there's  no 
getting  over  the  link  with  Germany  —  my  relations  —  my 
father—" 

"And  his  sympathies?"  Derek  ventured. 

"You  must  judge  by  his  actions  —  as  I  do.  I  find  it  hard 
to  speak  positively  about  my  father  in  any  connection.  Though 
we're  quite  good  friends,  we've  never  been  intimate.  That's  not 
his  way.  He's  a  remarkable  man  —  a  strange,  lonely  man." 

"He  seems  to  have  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Van." 

Karl  smiled.  "Van's  a  confoundedly  attractive  person.  But 
I  wish  he  would  keep  his  eyes  wader  open  these  days.  The 
trouble  is  —  he's  only  one  of  thousands.  The  English  as  a  whole 
are  so  amazingly  blind  in  some  directions.  They  —  we  are  such 
a  queer  mixture.  Idealists  and  adventurers,  in  the  grain;  yet 


280  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

cursed  with  a  habit  of  assessing  everything  in  terms  of  cash. 
And  the  Germans  take  full  advantage  of  both  qualities.  We, 
that  are  half  German,  see  that.  And  we  hate  it.  At  least  • —  I 
know  I  do." 

He  was  rewarded  by  one  of  Derek's  friendliest  smiles,  which 
encouraged  him  to  add,  in  the  same  level  tone:  "It  makes  one 
doubtful,  sometimes  .  .  .  about  the  future.  There's  only  one 
safe,  sane  thing  to  do  —  intern  the  lot  of  us.  Those  that  are 
loyal  should  be  willing  to  suffer  the  inconvenience  for  the  safety 
of  the  country.  Lord  knows  I  wrould  be." 

At  that  astonishing  statement  Derek  turned  impulsively  and 
held  out  his  hand.  "Damn  it,  Karl,  you  are  the  goods." 

"You  haven't  —  always  thought  so?" 

"I  haven't  quite  —  known  what  to  think,"  Derek  answered 
truthfully. 

Then  shyness  fell  on  them.  They  quickened  their  pace  and 
tried  to  look  as  if  they  had  not  been  guilty  of  a  very  un-English 
demonstration  — 

"Say,  Karl,"  Derek  asked  suddenly.  "Have  you  ever  spoken 
to  Van  —  the  way  you've  been  talking  to  me  just  now?  " 

"No." 

There  was  a  hint  of  finality  about  the  negative  that  Derek 
was  not  the  man  to  disregard.  It  painfully  recalled  his  own 
abortive  attempt;  and  the  mental  jerk  backward  reminded  him 
that  he  was  supposed  to  be  catching  a  train.  He  consulted  his 
watch. 

"Clean  missed  it!"  he  said  cheerfully.  "Better  than  miss 
ing  our  talk,  though!  I  can  ride  on  to  the  junction  and  wire  to 
Mark.  Keep  your  eye  on  things,  Karl.  If  Van  does  seem  a  bit 
casual,  we  must  remember  —  it's  how  he's  made." 

They  shook  hands  again  at  parting;  and  Karl  waved  his  stick 
as  Derek  rode  off. 


CHAPTER  V 

Though  we  knew  that,  at  the  last,  Death  would  have  his  lust  of  us, 
Carelessly  we  braved  his  might;  felt  —  and  knew  not  why  — 

Something  stronger  than  ourselves  moving  in  the  dust  of  us; 
Something  in  the  Soul  of  Man  still  too  great  to  die. 

LIEUT.  E.  A.  MACINTOSH,  M.  C. 

They  said  farewell  to  their  habitual  affections;  and 
•went  out  singing  to  their  marriage  with  death. 

LIEUT.  CONINGSBY  DAWSON 

IT  was  a  long  spin  to  the  nearest  junction,  but  Derek  had 
more  than  enough  to  occupy  his  mind.  His  talk  with  Karl  had 
eased,  a  little,  his  bitter  sense  of  failure;  but  it  had  deepened  his 
anxieties  and  revived  his  earlier  criticism  of  Van,  whom  even  a 
world  at  war  could  not  lift  an  inch  out  of  his  mental  groove.  All 
he  asked  was  leave  to  enjoy  himself  in  peace  and  comfort.  If 
awkward  facts  threatened  to  disturb  him,  he  simply  would  not 
look  them  in  the  face.  And  Van  —  with  variations  —  abounded 
in  every  profession.  Jack's  father  was  a  variant  in  point.  Poor 
old  Jack!  How  often  he  had  chaffed  him  about  exaggerating 
Schonberg's  potency  for  evil.  Now  he  understood.  In  defiance 
of  common  sense,  the  man  gave  one  a  queer  feeling  of  stealthy, 
inexorable  power:  the  very  symbol  of  modern  Germany,  whose 
unresting,  ubiquitous  activities  —  too  little  recognized  —  made 
her  loom  more  than  life-size  to  those  who  knew  something 
of  her  skill  in  disintegrating  and  demoralizing  the  simpler, 
finer  races  of  earth.  In  the  course  of  his  wanderings,  Derek 
had  caught  glimpses,  if  no  more,  of  that  insidious,  disruptive  pro 
cess;  and  those  glimpses  had  been  confirmed  by  talks  with  his 
father.  For  Lord  Avonleigh  was  counted  among  the  discerning 
few  who,  year  after  year,  had  been  compelled  to  watch  the  coun 
try  they  loved  complacently  thrusting  her  head  into  the  German 
noose. 


282  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Make  friends  in  order  to  betray  them,  is  their  perverted 
notion  of  patriotism,"  he  had  told  Derek,  perceiving  that  this 
son  would  not  dismiss  his  talk  as  prejudice  or  obsession.  "And 
they  have  friends  in  every  Court  and  Cabinet  in  Europe.  Since 
this  War  began,  we  have  all  had  a  bitter  taste  of  the  first  fruits 
of  their  labours;  and  unless  we  combine  ruthlessly  against  them 
now,  the  second  crop  may  prove  more  terrible  than  the  first." 

To-day  those  words  came  back  to  Derek  with  a  painful 
significance.  Nothing  he  had  seen  or  heard,  since  his  return, 
gave  the  smallest  promise  of  ruthless  or  concerted  action:  and 
his  own  sense  of  helplessness  brought  home  to  him  the  larger 
helplessness  of  his  country  —  ensnared  on  the  one  hand;  and, 
on  the  other,  virtually  betrayed. 

Everywhere  —  through  lies  cunningly  overlaid  —  Germany 
had  apparently  prevailed  —  up  to  a  point;  even  as  Schonberg 
was  prevailing  with  Burlton  and  Van.  Yet  which  of  them  dared 
hint  to  Lord  Avonleigh  that  his  own  son  seemed  culpably  care 
less  of  the  trust  committed  to  him?  Derek  was  fain  to  admit 
that  his  father  had  put  poor  Malcolm  in  a  cruelly  awkward 
position;  and  he  chafed  acutely  against  his  own  inability  to 
help.  Yet  he  could  do  no  more  for  Van.  That  he  recognized, 
bitterly  enough.  His  mother  would  hear  a  revised  version  of 
his  'interference';  and  the  faint  hope  of  a  closer  relation  with 
her  would  vanish  into  air  — 

It  was  an  immense  relief  to  reach  Wynchcombe  Friars  and 
Mark,  whose  recent  engagement  to  Sheila  Melrose  was  still 
the  talk  of  the  neighbourhood.  At  a  bend  in  the  drive,  they  al 
most  collided;  and  Derek,  dismounting,  walked  back  beside  his 
friend's  wheeled  chair. 

The  shock  of  realizing  his  crippled  condition  was  softened  by 
his  exaltation  of  spirit  over  Sheila's  'angelic  refusal  to  be  re 
fused.'  And  Derek  listened  to  it  all  with  few  comments,  though 
not  without  an  occasional  tweak  of  envy.  He,  who  was  phy 
sically  sound,  had  a  sudden,  strange  sense  of  being  crippled  in 
the  inward  parts.  Not  for  him  this  sane,  passionate  adoration 
of  the  woman  that  seemed  to  have  made  Mark  less  assured,  less 
egotistical,  than  of  old.  .  .  . 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  283 

But  the  friendly  atmosphere  of  Wynchcombe  Friars  was  not 
conducive  to  introspection  tinged  with  bitterness. 

Lady  Forsyth,  hearing  their  voices,  ran  out,  hatless,  to  greet 
him,  followed  more  leisurely  by  Sheila  herself. 

The  elder  woman  set  her  hands  on  Derek's  shoulders  and  kissed 
him. 

"Welcome  home,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "You  couldn't  have 
appeared  at  a  happier  moment!"  Then  she  stood  back,  survey 
ing  him,  noting  the  change  within  and  without.  "Your  deputy 
mother  is  proud  of  you,"  she  added,  on  a  graver  note  of  feeling, 
and  slipped  a  hand  through  his  arm. 

At  lunch  Macnair  appeared,  trying  not  to  look  self-conscious, 
and  succeeding  moderately  well.  The  four  of  them,  so  happily 
united,  made  a  mere  unattached  unit  feel  a  distinct  anomaly  in 
the  scheme  of  things:  and  once  more  Derek  experienced  that 
faint  tweak  of  envy  which  a  devotee  of  freedom  had  no  business 
to  feel. 

It  was  good  to  be  alone  again  with  Mark,  to  be  driven  all 
over  the  estate,  to  hear  about  his  colony  for  the  disabled,  his 
comprehensive  scheme  for  settling  soldiers  on  the  land  and  re 
viving  social  village  life.  Mark,  without  some  great  scheme 
or  inspiration  on  hand,  would  not  be  Mark.  War  that  had 
battered  his  body,  had  not  quenched  the  ardour  of  his  spirit: 
and  it  was  this  very  ardour,  coupled  with  the  streak  of  genius 
and  leadership  in  him,  that  had  always  made  Derek  regard  him 
as  the  stronger  character  of  the  two.  Mark  himself  was  under 
no  delusion  on  that  score. 

Tea  on  the  terrace,  followed  by  music,  brought  back  a  gen 
uine  whiff  of  old  times.  And  because  the  friends  had  only  the 
one  night  together,  Derek  was  allowed  to  sit  up  till  all  hours 
by  Mark's  bedside,  telling  much  and  hearing  more  of  those  inti 
mate  things  that  can  only  be  half  told  at  best. 

Both  had  passed  through  deep  waters,  but,  by  comparison 
with  Mark's  strange  experiences,  his  broken  body  and  shat 
tered  nerves,  Derek's  depths  seemed  mere  shallows.  His  own 
ordeal  by  war  was  still  to  come.  Yet  Mark's  was  the  more  elastic 
nature,  the  readier  tongue.  Unlike  his  friend,  he  had  never  been 


284  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

completely  isolated  in  spirit;  and  Derek,  in  consequence,  heard 
more  than  he  told.  Having  so  unexpectedly  opened  his  heart  to 
his  father,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  traverse  the  whole 
ground  again;  and  Mark  could  be  trusted  to  understand.  He 
gathered  quite  enough,  before  midnight,  to  make  him  fear  that 
the  thing  might  have  gone  deeper  with  Derek  than  he  chose  to 
confess. 

Some  day  —  perhaps  —  ? 

Meantime,  it  was  plain  that  the  War  possessed  his  soul  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  else.  So  they  pursued  that  inexhaustible  theme 
to  their  heart's  content;  and  on  Sunday  evening  Derek  travelled 
back,  in  a  very  mixed  frame  of  mind,  to  his  route  marching  and 
drilling  in  the  mud. 

Very  soon,  drilling  in  the  mud  gave  place  to  manoeuvres  and 
musketry,  with  such  rifles  as  were  slowly  coming  to  hand.  Very 
soon,  also,  came  news  of  the  second  great  stand  at  Ypres  and 
the  fresh  horror  added  to  war  as  conceived  by  Germany. 

Derek  discovered  how  securely  Canada  had  annexed  a  por 
tion  of  his  heart  when  he  read  how  the  flower  of  her  new-made 
Army — gassed,  perforated  by  machine  guns,  and  hopelessly  out 
numbered  —  had  fought  through  a  night  and  a  day;  and  again 
a  night  and  a  day;  hanging  on  by  their  eyelids  to  an  almost  im 
possible  position,  till  reinforcements  reached  them  and  the  on 
rush  was  checked. 

Then  the  wounded  came  pouring  in.  ... 

Derek  had  permission  to  visit  the  Canadian  hospital,  where 
he  found  Abe  Callander,  with  a  shattered  hand  and  forearm. 
But  most  of  his  pals  were  left  behind  him,  on  the  field  of  honour. 

"  Maggots  and  Dan  and  Macrae  of  Beulah  Ranch  —  you  may 
remember?" 

Did  Derek  not  remember? 

Mick  had  pulled  through  a  dose  of  gas  sufficient  to  kill  three 
men.  "But,  Dan  being  gone,"  Abe  added  gravely,  "the  poor 
cuss  gets  wishing  they'd  given  him  enough  for  six." 

Derek  could  well  believe  it;  the  more  so  when  he  found  Mick 
himself — a  great, gaunt  framework  of  a  man;  his  eyes,  startlingly 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  285 

blue  and  fierce,  sunk  deep  in  their  sockets;  and  in  his  heart  a 
consuming  fire  of  hatred  —  he,  the  most  large-hearted  of  men. 
For  he  had  seen  his  brother  die  in  agony;  dastardly  choked  out 
of  life  by  fumes  as  poisonous  as  the  spirit  that  bred  them.  In 
hoarse,  spasmodic  whispers  he  confided  to  Derek  that  for  him 
life  held  no  purpose,  now,  but  the  dogged  resolve  to  get  back 
'out  there,'  and  kill  and  kill  .  .  . 

"  Smoke  'em  out!  Give  'em  a  taste  of  their  own  hell.  Mebbe 
Europe'll  be  a  cleaner  place  when  we've  wiped  the  floor  of  France 
an'  Belgium  with  the  blank  lot  of  em  —  Kaiser  an'  all!" 

Derek  returned  to  camp  fired  with  a  deep  and  abiding  in 
dignation.  He  bade  the  kindly,  unimaginative  men  of  his  own 
regiment  visit  the  Canadians  and  see  for  themselves  precisely 
what  manner  of  devil  German  civilization  had  let  loose  upon 
earth.  Till  his  turn  came  to  fight,  he  could  only  do  his  insignifi 
cant  best  to  exorcise  that  easy-going  spirit  of  tolerance  and 
apathy,  that  was  insidiously  paving  the  way  for  defeat. 

And  all  this  while  no  word  from  Van.  Both  were  bad  corre 
spondents;  but  Derek  had  hoped  for  a  casual  expression  of  re 
gret,  while  Van  was  probably  awaiting  a  casual  form  of  apology. 

Lady  Avonleigh  wrote  at  intervals;  and  her  sole  reference  to 
the  quarrel  was  so  characteristic  that  it  touched  up  Derek's 
humour,  even  while  it  hurt. 

"I  was  sorry  to  hear  from  Van  that  you  and  he  had  a  little 
disagreement  over  Avonleigh  plans.  Such  a  pity,  dear,  directly 
you  come  home,  to  make  an  unpleasantness  by  interfering  in 
matters  that  you  can't  possibly  know  much  about,  having  been 
so  long  away.  And,  after  all,  dear  Van  is  in  your  father's  place. 
He  has  heavy  responsibilities,  and  I  think  we  should  all  try  to 
help  and  not  hinder  him.  ..." 

Van's  revised  version  had  evidently  been  one  of  his  best 
samples;  and  Derek  felt  less  than  ever  disposed  towards  amicable 
advances. 

To  his  father  he  now  wrote  regularly  and  at  length.  Only  on 
the  one  subject  he  could  say  little  or  nothing  —  which  pained 
him  considerably.  But  if  his  activities  were  checked  in  that 
direction,  they  found  outlets  sufficiently  satisfying,  in  the  ardu- 


286  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

cms  business  of  training  and  the  amenities  of  camp  life.  War 
had  given  him,  unsought,  his  original  desire,  the  chance  of  living 
and  working  in  close  comradeship  with  the  ruck  of  his  own 
kind  —  and  not  the  ruck  only.  In  a  service  Battalion  of  the  New 
Army,  a  man  could  glean  a  dozen  points  of  view  besides  that 
of  the  British  artisan  —  the  clerk,  the  journalist,  the  aristocrat, 
the  countryman  and  the  cockney,  —  flung  together,  pell-mell, 
by  one  imperishable  instinct  —  the  love  of  his  own  land. 

Denied,  sneered  at,  systematically  damped  down  by  the  little 
breed  of  men  who  had  juggled  with  England's  destiny,  it  leaped 
forth,  a  living  flame,  at  the  first  real  threat  of  danger  to  the 
Empire.  In  defiance  of  cranks  and  the  Stock  Exchange,  a  man 
will  still  defend  his  own  soil,  the  sacred  traditions  of  his  race; 
and  Derek  Blount,  with  the  record  of  a  great  house  behind  him, 
knew  very  well  that  tradition  —  though  it  can  be  perverted  into 
a  substitute  for  life  —  is,  in  its  essence,  one  of  the  great  spiritual 
forces  of  earth.  It  makes  high  demands.  It  sets  a  standard: 
and  as,  without  vision,  so  without  a  standard,  the  people  perish. 

Though  the  scratch  units  of  Kitchener's  'Mob'  sang  comic 
songs  and  refused  to  take  themselves  seriously,  they  knew  in 
their  hearts  that  the  splendid  record  of  the  old  Army  through 
the  centuries  —  and  its  final  crown  of  martyrdom  in  the  Great 
Retreat  —  was  the  light  that  lighted  every  man  who  joined  the 
New  Army,  though  he  came  with  a  joke  on  his  lips  or  secret 
reluctance  in  his  soul.  So,  too,  these  very  new  Hampshires 
burned  to  emulate  the  very  old  Hampshires,  though  they  said 
not  a  word  about  it;  and  Derek  was  quick  to  catch  both  the 
spark  of  ambition  and  the  cloak  of  carelessness  that  kept  it  hid. 

He  had  suffered  not  a  little  at  first  from  the  feeling  of  being 
sucked  into  a  vortex,  of  the  collective  wrar-spirit  clamouring  for 
possession  of  his  individual  soul.  And,  for  a  time,  he  resisted 
instinctively.  Then  the  war-spirit  took  hold  of  him  like  a  reli 
gion;  reducing  life  to  its  simplest  elements;  burning  up  all  com 
plexities  and  false  values  in  the  white  flame  of  one  great  and 
terrible  issue. 

When  that  came  to  pass,  he  was  a  civilian  no  longer;  simply 
a  fragment  of  fighting  England;  and  it  was  well  with  him. 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  287 

Hard  upon  the  desperate  heroism  of  Ypres  followed  the 
tragedy  of  Festubert;  and  all  through  May  the  Russian  armies 
that  should  have  been  marching  on  Berlin  were  retreating  — 
steadily  retreating  — 

It  was  near  the  end  of  the  month  that  Derek  received  a  note 
from  Van: 

DEAR  DIRKS,  —  Are  you  sulking  down  there  or  too  deeply  engaged 
to  give  us  a  thought?  If  it's  the  former  kindly  buck  up  and  don't 
be  a  fool.  Father  seems  satisfied  with  my  arrangements,  so  you 
needn't  exhaust  yourself  on  his  account.  London's  topping  just  now 
in  spite  of  this  everlasting  war.  So  come  and  have  a  squint  round  in 
my  company. 

Yours  VAN 

That  note  with  its  friendly  touch  of  patronage  —  at  once 
amused  and  annoyed  him.  But  it  was  high  time  he  saw  them 
all  —  and  London  —  again.  So  he  spent  two  nights  at  Avon- 
leigh  House  and  went  out  both  evenings  with  Van.  None  of 
them  alluded  to  Schonberg  or  the  Hospital;  and  he  himself  had 
need  to  keep  the  door  of  his  lips  with  scrupulous  care.  Above 
all,  he  must  not  criticize  the  Government  or  make  pessimistic 
remarks.  And  as  the  general  outlook  —  at  home  and  abroad  — 
did  not  strike  him  as  particularly  rosy,  conversation  proved 
rather  uphill  work. 

On  the  third  day  he  parted  from  them  all  with  a  depressing 
sense  of  relief  —  which  he  assured  himself  was  probably  mutual 
—  and  went  straight  to  Wynchcombe  Friars  on  a  very  important 
errand. 

Mark  and  Sheila  were  to  be  quietly  married  before  they  all 
left  for  Scotland;  and  Derek's  services  were  required  as  best  man. 
He  travelled  down  with  John  Burlton,  Sheila's  uncle,  who  had 
been  asked  to  give  her  away;  and  their  talk  was  chiefly  of  Jack, 
who  had  manoeuvred  an  exchange  into  an  infantry  battalion 
sadly  depleted  of  officers. 

"He  says  cavalry's  a  bit  out  of  it  in  this  never-ending  trench 
business;  and  I'm  afraid  —  I  wasn't  altogether  sorry  for  that!" 
Jack's  father  confessed  with  a  rueful  smile.  "But  you  can't 


288  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

blame  the  boy.  He's  learning  to  throw  these  new  bombs  they're 
so  keen  about.  Tricky  things!  I'd  sooner  trust  a  rifle  any 
day." 

Only  once  he  mentioned  Schonberg;  and  the  remark  stuck  in 
Derek's  mind.  "Seen  Avonleigh  Hospital  yet?"  he  asked;  and 
Derek  said  "No."  "Well  —  you  should.  My  friend  Schonberg 
says  it's  Ai.  He's  a  wonderful  man.  No  end  to  his  activities; 
and  if  a  thing  happens  to  catch  his  fancy,  he'll  spend  money  like 
water." 

Derek  cursed  inwardly  and  held  his  tongue.  Since  he  was 
helpless  he  preferred  to  hear  no  more:  and  as  usual  Wynch- 
combe  Friars  diverted  his  thoughts  into  happier  channels. 

They  were  but  nine  of  them,  counting  the  chaplain,  in  the 
squat-towered  church  next  morning.  Derek,  standing  beside 
Mark's  wheeled  chair  —  listening  to  those  simple  words  that 
hold  as  much  of  potential  tragedy  as  blessedness  —  was  poign 
antly  reminded  of  his  own  sensations  less  than  a  year  ago;  and 
beneath  the  grave  exaltation  of  his  friend's  aspect,  he  could 
detect  underlying  strain.  They  had  sat  late  together  overnight, 
and  Mark  had  hinted  at  the  qualms  that  beset  him  afresh  on 
the  verge  of  the  irrevocable.  Derek  had  retorted  that  qualms 
implied  lack  of  faith  in  Sheila;  which  potent  argument  —  he 
hoped  and  believed  —  had  laid  them  to  rest  for  good. 

The  service  was  of  the  simplest  and  briefest:  one  hymn, 
no  address;  and  in  place  of  Mendelssohn's  hackneyed  strains, 
the  solemn  beauty  of  Mozart's  'Gloria  in  Excelsis.'  For  this 
wras  no  ordinary  union.  There  were  spiritual  forces  behind  it 
that  are  rarely  present  at  the  usual  give  and  take  of  marriage 
VOWTS.  And  Sheila  bore  herself  queenly  as  she  walked  down  the 
empty  church  by  Mark's  chair;  very  slender,  very  erect;  a  hand 
slipped  through  his  arm.  For  a  brief  instant,  Derek  encountered 
her  eyes;  and  the  look  in  them,  at  once  proud  and  tender  and 
uplifted,  brought  a  lump  into  his  throat. 

The  moment  of  parting  was  overshadowed  by  the  knowledge 
that  they  could  not  meet  again  before  Derek  went  to  France. 
But  though  all  were  acutely  aware  of  that  fact,  no  word  was  said 
to  mar  the  high  serenity  of  Mark's  Great  Occasion  — 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  289 

It  was  early  in  June  that  Jack  dashed  home  on  ninety-six 
hours'  leave.  The  greater  part  of  it  he  spent  with  his  father; 
but  the  final  twenty-four  hours  were  given  to  Derek  —  and 
Town.  They  were  gone  in  no  time  —  a  breathless,  restless  rush: 
Jack  in  high  health  and  spirits,  and  very  learned  on  the  subject 
of  bombs,  that  —  like  every  other  fresh  development  —  were 
the  destined  heralds  of  victory.  After  supper,  in  their  hotel 
bedroom,  they  fell  into  a  graver  vein  of  talk;  but  on  the  whole 
they  maintained  a  resolute  cheerfulness,  even  through  those  last 
ten  minutes  on  the  platform  —  the  severest  test  of  all. 

"Now  I've  got  my  hand  in,  you  bet  the  Bodies  will  begin 
to  sit  up  and  take  notice!"  said  Jack  from  the  carriage  win 
dow.  "Likewise,  you  and  the  old  man  will  be  hearing  of  me 
presently!" 

And  it  was  so. 

A  bare  three  weeks  after  their  parting,  they  heard  of  him. 
Derek,  opening  an  innocent  looking  letter  from  Randchester, 
found  within  it  the  message  that  ended  all. 

The  Secretary  for  War  regretted  to  report  Captain  John 
Burlton's  gallant  death  in  action,  killed  by  a  bomb :  —  and 
Derek  sat  staring  stupidly  at  the  words,  hardly  aware  of  the 
tears  that  crowded  into  his  eyes.  .  .  . 

Later  on,  when  the  truth  had  penetrated,  he  achieved  some 
sort  of  a  letter  to  the  'old  man.'  Comfortable  condolences  did 
not  flow  readily  from  his  pen,  and  for  him  the  unbeholden  was 
not  'a  sure  and  certain  hope.'  Jacko  was  gone  —  dead  upon  the 
field  of  honour.  The  world  would  not  know  his  happy,  simple- 
hearted  presence  any  more.  And  suddenly  Derek  thought  of 
Gabrielle  de  Vigne,  with  her  "Jacko,  you're  superfluous!"  and 
the  mother  tenderness  in  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

And  again,  later  on,  details  were  forthcoming.  Jack  had  been 
at  work  with  a  party  of  his  section,  when  a  bomb  fell  into  the 
trench;  and  without  a  second's  hesitation,  he  had  flung  himself 
upon  the  deadly  thing  —  had  saved  the  lives  of  his  men  at  the 
cost  of  his  own  — 

Later  on  still,  they  heard  that  his  name  had  been  sent  up  for 


290  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

a  posthumous  V.C.  How  proud  and  delighted  he  would  have 
been  had  he  earned  it  —  living!  And  Derek  caught  himself 
wondering  if  he  knew  — 

While  the  first  bewildering  sense  of  loss  was  fresh  upon  him, 
came  orders  for  embarkation;  and  he  was  thankful  they  left 
small  margin  for  farewells.  He  had  heard  men  say  they  could 
stick  anything  except  the  look  on  the  faces  of  the  women  when 
the  final  wrench  came.  Besides  —  it  would  be  very  bad  for  his 
mother.  He  would  dearly  love  to  see  her  again,  but  he  would 
rather  not  say  good-bye  to  any  of  them  —  even  Van.  Writing 
it  proved  quite  difficult  enough. 

Then  there  was  the  personal  pang  of  leaving  England  in  the 
high  tide  of  summer;  a  flush  of  rose  madder  on  her  awakening 
moors;  poppies  aflame  in  her  standing  corn.  Three  years  ago 
he  had  left  her  in  order  to  know  more  of  her;  and  that  fuller 
understanding  eased,  a  little,  the  wrench  of  leaving  her  now, 
when  one  had  to  face  the  fact  that  there  might  be  no  return. 

Derek  was  no  soldier  by  temperament;  but  the  loss  of  Jack 
and  his  deep-seated  antagonism  to  the  soul  of  modern  Germany 
had  given  him  a  measure  of  the  true  battle  spirit  —  very  rare 
among  Englishmen;  the  burning  sense  of  terrible  wrongs  that 
must  be  terribly  avenged:  —  not  merely  the  one  life  dear  to  him, 
nor  even  the  thousands  of  other  lives,  broken  and  brutally 
extinguished;  but  the  calculated  murder  of  things  spiritual  — 
the  truth  and  beauty  and  decency  of  man's  human  estate  — 
lacking  which,  he  is  even  less  than  the  beasts  that  perish. 

The  stress  of  these  half  articulate  emotions  made  Derek 
peculiarly  thankful  for  the  secret  and  very  prosaic  manner  of 
their  going.  No  martial  music  to  stir  or  harrow  them;  not  a 
cheer,  as  the  packed  train  slid  out  of  the  station;  not  a  soul,  save 
a  few  indifferent  dockers,  to  watch  them  stream  over  the  gang 
way  on  to  the  grey  merchant  liner  that  had  never  borne  prouder 
loads  than  those  stubborn,  cheerful,  self-dedicated  men.  Yet 
they  talked  no  patriotics.  They  seemed  blind  to  any  spark  of 
romance  or  heroism  in  their  great  adventure;  and  they  were 
a  good  deal  more  concerned  about  sea-sickness  than  about 
submarines. 


SMOKE  AND  FLAME  291 

Only  the  purring  of  engines  told  them  they  were  off:  and  as 
they  thronged  the  taffrail,  taking  their  last  look  at  England,  a 
procession  of  coal  barges,  like  an  ink  stain  on  the  dusk,  moved 
some  wag  at  Derek's  elbow  to  sing  out  lustily:  "Keep  the  home 
fires  burning,  matey.  That's  your  job.  We've  bloomin'  well 
got  ours." 

At  once  a  score  of  voices  took  up  the  familiar  chorus.  And  so 
singing,  they  slipped  away  into  the  heart  of  darkness,  a  guardian 
destroyer  on  either  hand.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VI 

Almost,  thou  persuadest  me  .  .  . 

ACTS  xxvi,  28. 

VAN,  left  behind  in  England,  was  considerably  annoyed  that 
Derek  should  have  slipped  off  across  the  Channel  without  mak 
ing  an  effort  to  see  him  again.  It  struck  him  as  amazingly  in 
considerate  and  unfeeling;  in  brief,  Dirks  all  over.  It  was  a 
curious  and  persistent  fact  —  sharply  emphasizing  their  essen 
tial  unlikeness  —  that  whenever  Derek's  misdemeanours  hap 
pened  to  spring  from  excess  of  feeling,  Van  never,  by  any  chance, 
suspected  the  fact.  But  his  fleeting  annoyance  was  soon  dis 
placed  by  a  vague  anxiety,  which  he  discouraged  to  the  best  of 
his  ability. 

Derek,  himself,  unconsciously  assisted  the  process.  His 
letters  were  few  and  brief;  barren  of  detail,  but  cheerful  on  the 
whole.  He  earned  rapid  promotion  to  the  rank  of  Sergeant; 
and  he  could  have  had  a  commission  for  the  asking;  but  pre 
ferred,  inexplicably,  to  remain  an  N.C.O.  Van  had  never 
discovered  —  nor  ever  would  —  the  clue  to  his  chronically  un 
accountable  thoughts  and  ways. 

At  home,  the  uneventful  summer  of  1915  passed  pleasantly 
enough.  The  Coalition  compromise  and  a  revolution  in  the 
supply  of  munitions  raised  afresh  the  hopes  that  had  been  so 
rudely  dashed  after  Neuve  Chapelle.  At  the  front,  it  seemed, 
there  was  "nothing  doing";  and  they  all  became  gradually 
inured  to  the  fact  that  Derek  was  'out  there.'  Scores  of  fellows, 
Van  assured  Lady  Avonleigh,  had  come  through  everything, 
even  the  hell  of  that  early  fighting,  without  a  scratch  — 

And  all  the  while,  in  France,  events  were  working  up  to  a 
fresh  bid  for  Lille;  and,  with  the  passing  of  summer,  the  Loos 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  293 

sector  came  violently  to  life.  Derek,  they  knew,  was  there  or 
thereabouts.  He  had  promised  Van,  in  the  event  of  a  'big  push/ 
to  despatch  a  field  postcard  at  the  first  possible  moment.  But 
a  week  passed;  and  the  hope  of  decisive  victory  dwindled;  and 
never  a  line  from  him. 

In  all  the  days  of  his  untroubled  life  Van  had  not  known  an 
hour's  acute  anxiety  except  about  money.  His  earlier  tweaks 
were  child's  play  to  this  vague,  persistent  ache,  this  mental 
restlessness  that  would  not  be  stilled;  and  the  look  of  strained 
expectancy  in  his  mother's  eyes  was  very  hard  to  bear.  For 
the  moment  he  was  living  at  Avonleigh  House.  He  knew  it 
comforted  her;  and  mutual  anxiety  had  drawn  them  closer 
together.  They  remarked  that  he  wras  careless;  that  the  card 
might  have  been  delayed;  while  each  read  the  secret  fear  in  the 
other's  eyes.  If  he  were  a  casualty,  they  would  get  no  telegram, 
because  he  was  in  the  ranks;  and  Van  —  who  had  friends  at 
Court  —  besieged  the  War  Office,  without  avail. 

At  last  —  when  hope  had  almost  flickered  out  —  came  the 
official  intimation  that  Sergeant  the  Honourable  Derek  Blount 
had  been  gassed  and  dangerously  wounded  in  the  first  day's 
fighting.  Van  took  the  horrid  thing  straight  to  his  mother: 
and,  standing  together  on  the  hearthrug,  they  read  it  over  and 
over  —  recalling  hideous  details  heard  in  the  days  of  Ypres  — 

Then  Van  remarked  in  a  queer  contained  voice:  "And  while 
this  illuminating  information  has  been  trickling  through,  God 
knows  — 

Lady  Avonleigh  shivered;  and  he  put  his  arm  round  her. 
"Hold  up,  dear,"  he  said,  and  kissed  her  with  unusual  tender 
ness.  "We  shall  be  honoured  with  details  from  some  confounded 
official  soon." 

And  this  time  they  were  not  kept  waiting  long. 

Next  morning  he  came  down  late,  as  usual,  to  find  beside  his 
plate  a  brief  urgent  letter  from  the  doctor  in  charge  of  a  hospital 
at  Rouen: 

Your  brother,  I  deeply  regret  to  say,  is  in  a  critical  condition.  Be 
sides  being  badly  gassed,  he  has  a  severe  wound  in  the  groin  and  a 


294  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

slight  head  wound.  What  went  wrong  with  his  gas-mask  he  is  not 
in  a  condition  to  explain.  Should  you  be  able  to  come  over  and  see 
him,  it  would  be  well  to  lose  no  time.  I  wish  I  could  write  more 
hopefully,  but  it  is  imperative  that  you  should  know  the  truth. 

Van  could  feel,  while  he  read,  the  mute  question  in  his  mother's 
eyes,  in  the  tense  stillness  of  her  whole  attitude. 

"Not  the  worst,  dear,"  he  said  quietly,  handing  her  the  letter; 
and  she  read  it  slowly,  with  compressed  lips.  Then,  for  one 
strained  moment,  they  confronted  each  other  in  silence. 

"You  ought  ...  to  start  at  once?"  Lady  Avonleigh  said. 
The  remark  hovered  between  a  statement  and  a  question. 

Van  nodded  and  mechanically  sipped  his  tea. 

"  Oh !  it's  dreadful ! "  she  breathed.    "  Father  ought  to  be  here." 

"I  wish  to  God  he  was!"  Van  agreed  with  unwonted  fer 
vour —  and  there  wras  another  strained  pause.  "Of  course  — 
if  one  could  be  sure  of  seeing  Derek  ...  if  it  would  really  give 
him  any  pleasure  --  but  if  ..."  Van  hesitated  painfully. 
"There  does  seem  to  be  a  ghost  of  a  chance.  So  —  one  must 
just  face  things  —  and  go." 

His  voice  had  the  same  tentative  note  as  her  own;  and  sud 
denly  he  felt  that,  somewhere,  all  this  had  happened  before. 
It  was  their  talk  about  India,  with  the  positions  reversed. 

"Yes,  dear  —  of  course  you  must  go,"  she  said  with  gentle 
decision. 

"  But  I  don't  half  like  leaving  you,  unless  —  This  is  two  days 
old.  I  think  —  I'll  wire." 

"Yes  —  wire."  Something  in  her  tone,  and  the  knowledge 
that  she  would  understand,  prompted  him  to  add:  "Frankly, 
Mother  .  .  .  I  hate  going — " 

"My  dear,  I  hate  it  too.  I  shan't  have  a  moment's  peace 
till  you're  home  again.  But  .  .  .  poor  Derek  .  .  .  poor  dar 
ling!  If  only  7  was  stronger!" 

"  You?"  The  bare  suggestion  showed  him  that  the  depths  of 
her  motherhood  were  stirred;  and  it  cleared  the  air  of  indecision. 

But  the  final  word  was  with  the  Rouen  telegram: 

Condition  about  the  same.    Come  at  once. 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  295 

It  was  late  on  the  next  afternoon  when  —  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  —  Van  entered  a  hospital  ward  and  followed  a  fresh- 
coloured  Sister  between  rows  of  spotless  beds,  each  with  its 
broken  occupant  decently  bandaged  and  very  still. 

On  arrival,  he  had  heard,  with  intense  relief,  that  Derek 
was  through  the  worst. 

"  These  are  the  times  when  a  clean  life  tells,"  the  doctor  had 
said  gravely.  "It  will  be  a  slow  business,  but  the  chances  are 
in  his  favour." 

Van  had  wired  the  good  news  to  his  mother:  and  now  .  .  . 

The  Sister  halted  at  last  by  one  of  the  beds. 

"This,"  she  said,  "is  Sergeant  Blount." 

And  Van  stood  speechless,  looking  down  upon  the  travesty 
of  Derek  that  lay  there,  with  closed  eyes,  more  like  death  than 
life,  except  for  the  laboured,  uneven  breathing,  that  produced  a 
curious  catch  in  his  own  throat. 

Derek's  head  was  closely  bandaged.  The  healthy  tan  of  his 
skin  had  faded  to  a  grey  pallor.  His  lips  were  set  and  strained. 
A  cage  over  his  wound  made  an  unnatural  bulge  under  the  bed 
clothes,  and  one  thin  hand  gripped  the  edge  of  the  sheet. 

Van  was  aware  of  his  own  heart  beating  unevenly,  and  a 
strange  chill  of  repulsion  ran  through  him.  That  horrid  appari 
tion  was  not  Dirks.  He  could  feel  no  vital  link  with  it;  no 
warmth  of  affection  .  .  . 

The  Sister,  seeing  that  her  patient  was  not  asleep,  touched 
his  shoulder. 

"Sergeant,"  she  said,  "your  brother  is  here."  And  the  ap 
parition  opened  its  eyes.  They  at  least  were  unchanged.  Their 
clear  sea-tint  was  not  dimmed;  and  the  soul  of  Derek  looked 
out  of  them;  —  dazed  at  first,  then  with  a  swift  gleam  of  recog 
nition. 

"Van!"  he  whispered,  on  a  sharp  indrawn  breath  —  and  Van 
was  himself  again. 

The  Sister  set  a  chair  and  a  screen  near  the  bed,  to  give  them 
a  small  measure  of  privacy;  and  Van  was  glad  of  it.  For  though 
Derek  could  scarcely  speak,  he  did  not  release  his  brother's 
hand.  He  clung  to  it  as  a  child  clings  to  something  familiar 


296  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

after  a  nerve-shaking  nightmare;  and  the  thing  was  so  unlike 
Derek  that  it  moved  Van  as  he  was  rarely  moved.  It  dissolved 
the  last  morsel  of  antagonism  that  had  lurked  in  his  heart  ever 
since  their  clash  at  Avonleigh. 

"Mother?"  Derek  whispered:  and  Van  told  him  how  plucky 
she  had  been;  how  she  had  wanted  to  come  herself;  how  'good 
old  Con'  had  wept  and  sent  endless  messages;  gave  him  the 
latest  news  from  India;  and,  when  their  brief  time  together  was 
ended,  said  cheerfully:  "We'll  be  having  you  at  Avonleigh  when 
you're  properly  on  the  up-grade." 

Derek  shook  his  head  and  made  the  sign  of  the  Sergeant's 
stripes  on  his  sleeve. 

"No  matter.  We  can  fix  up  a  commission  and  square  it 
that  way!" 

Derek  smiled;  but  his  head-shake,  though  cautious,  was  even 
more  decisive;  and  Van  understood. 

"You  are  an  obstinate  beggar,  Dirks,  even  at  the  last 
gasp!  Shows  you've  some  kick  left  in  you,  anyhow;  and  I  could 
take  no  better  news  back  to  them  all.  See  you  again  before 
I  leave  - 

So  they  parted;  and  Van  was  not  sorry  to  escape  from  that 
temple  of  pain.  The  presence  of  all  those  silent,  suffering  men 
moved  him  to  more  than  discomfort.  They  made  him  feel,  for 
the  first  time,  vaguely  ashamed  — 

In  the  corridor  his  guide  remarked:  "There's  a  Sergeant 
Gosling  in  your  brother's  regiment,  who  said  he  would  like  to 
see  you." 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Van,  politely  acquiescent,  though  a 
trifle  bored. 

He  found  Bert  among  the  lesser  casualties,  with  a  damaged 
leg,  which  he  was  not  to  lose. 

"Excuse  me  troublin'  you,  sir,"  he  said  as  they  shook  hands. 
"But  I  thought  you  might  like  to  hear  how  Mr.  Derek  come  by 
that  dose  o'  good  British  gas.  If  /  know  him  he'll  git  sayin'  'e 
mislaid  his  'elmet." 

"He's  not  fit  to  say  even  that  much,  yet.    What  happened?" 

"Well,  'twas  one  of  our  corprils  did  the  mislayin'.    A  jumpy 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  297 

little  chap.  Bag  o'  nerves.  Jus'  the  last  moment,  couldn't  find 
his  bloomin'  'elmet  nowhere.  An'  Mr.  Derek  saw  the  funk  'e 
was  in,  between  the  gas  an'  the  penalty  for  'is  carelessness. 
'You  take  this,  Finch,'  he  says,  'I  got  a  extry  one.'  An'  Finch, 
he  took  it  like  winkin'.  'Les'  see  your  extry  one/  I  said,  when 
he  was  gone,  an'  Mr.  Derek  give  me  one  of  his  looks.  Then  I 
knew:  an'  I  let  out  —  I  did.  But  you  don't  get  no  change  out 
o'  him.  '  You  shut  your  mouth,  Bert,'  he  said.  '  'Tain't  pleasant 
to  be  in  a  funk.  Likely  I'll  find  one  somewhere.'  But  the  gas 
found  him  first.  God  A'mighty!  —  ef  you'd  'a'  seen  him,  sir!" 

"Thank  God  I  didn't!"  retorted  Van  with  such  pious  grati 
tude  that  Bert's  green  eye  twinkled.  The  Goslings,  as  a  family, 
were  not  partial  to  Van. 

"  Guess  it  would  'a'  turned  you  clean  inside  out,  sir,"  he  said 
quietly.  "But  over  'ere  we  got  to  put  up  with  such  little 
inconveniences." 

"And  to  balance  them,"  quoth  Van,  unperturbed,  "you  mo 
nopolize  all  the  glory  that's  going.  Thank  you  for  telling  me 
about  Mr.  Derek.  And  good  luck  to  your  leg." 

Bert's  tale  —  which  he  did  not  mention  to  Derek  next  morn 
ing  —  haunted  him  on  the  journey  back  to  Boulogne.  It 
deepened  the  disturbing  effect  of  his  first  real  contact  with  this 
War  that  was  being  so  indomitably  waged  by  men  of  like  frailties 
and  reluctances  as  himself;  men  who  loved  life  and  sunshine 
and  women,  and  enjoyed  a  good  dinner,  even  as  he  did;  and  had 
yet  put  all  those  loves  behind  them  for  —  the  sort  of  thing  he 
had  seen  and  heard  of  in  the  last  thirty-six  hours.  Look  at 
Derek  —  keen  as  mustard  to  stay  in  Bombay  as  his  father's 
Private  Secretary;  yet  he  had  come  on  home  and  joined  up  as  a 
matter  of  course;  and,  equally  as  a  matter  of  course,  he  had  taken 
his  chance  of  a  hideous  death  because  a  fellow  soldier  had  lost 
his  gas  helmet  and  funked  the  consequences. 

Before  he  reached  Boulogne,  Van  was  persuaded  —  very 
nearly  —  that  his  important  niche  in  the  Foreign  Office  could, 
at  a  pinch,  be  filled  by  an  older  man.  Even  so  —  what  of  his 
mother?  Bereft  of  her  husband,  she  seemed  to  lean  more  and 
more  on  him,  these  days.  And  again  —  what  of  Avonleigh? 


298  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Though  he  did  not  exert  himself  unduly  in  that  direction,  he 
was  by  no  means  prepared  to  leave  Schonberg  in  command  of 
the  ship.  For  these  important  considerations  he  felt  distinctly 
grateful:  but  there  remained  the  worrying  under-sense  of  a 
supreme  personal  obligation  unfulfilled  — 

His  father's  significant  silence  on  the  subject  bothered  him: 
and  he  had  net  even  the  tragic  excuse  of  personal  cowardice  to 
condone  his  persistent  hanging  back.  The  sheer  discomfort  of 
the  whole  thing  loomed  larger  than  the  danger;  and  yet  — 

The  trouble  with  Van  was  that  he  owned  a  conscience  —  of 
a  sort;  and,  at  times,  between  the  conscience  that  objected  to 
argument  by  slaughter,  and  the  conscience  that  protested 
against  saving  one's  skin  by  proxy,  he  suffered  enough  genuine 
discomfort  to  feel  he  was  at  least  enduring  his  share  of  the  great 
upheaval,  if  no  more. 

On  the  homeward  boat,  his  thoughts  were  given  a  still  more 
uncomfortable  turn  by  a  snatch  of  talk  overheard  in  the  street. 
Passing  close  by  a  cartload  of  battle  wrack,  outside  one  of  the 
hospitals,  the  guttural  under-tones  of  two  wounded  Germans 
had  caught  his  ear.  The  men  were  discussing  the  changed 
aspect  of  Boulogne;  frankly  congratulating  themselves  on  hav 
ing  "made  to  sweat  a  little  those  verfluchte  English." 

They  were  the  first  German  voices  he  had  heard  in  France: 
and  —  fresh  from  the  sight  of  Dirks,  tortured  into  a  travesty  of 
himself  —  they  stirred  in  him  those  very  ungentlemanly  sensa 
tions  that  certain  of  his  own  official  colleagues  so  constantly 
deplored.  Worse  still,  they  unpleasantly  recalled  the  voices  of 
men  who  were  his  confidential  friends.  For  the  moment,  he 
marvelled  at  himself  and  heartily  confounded  them  all.  Even 
Schonberg  was  not  exempt  from  his  sharp  revulsion  of  feeling  — 

Leaning  on  the  taffrail  —  idly  watching  the  vessel's  creamy 
track  merge  and  dwindle  and  disappear  —  he  fell  to  wondering 
whether  Derek  was  so  entirely  in  the  wrong  after  all.  That 
obstinate  head-shake,  in  response  to  his  own  natural  suggestion 
about  Avonleigh,  was  more  impressive  —  when  you  came  to 
think  of  it  —  than  his  windy  talk  about  hidden  influences  and 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  299 

Germans  abroad.  He  was  a  consistent  beggar,  was  Dirks. 
Nothing,  it  seemed,  would  induce  him  to  come  near  the  place 
while  the  Schonberg  connection  lasted.  Yet  in  his  secretive 
fashion,  he  probably  loved  Avonleigh,  and  all  it  stood  for,  better 
than  anything  on  earth.  So  did  Van,  if  it  came  to  that.  But 
one  had  to  recognize  that  there  were  other  considerations,  other 
loves.  Compromise  was  the  essence  of  life.  A  man  in  his 
position  couldn't  run  it  on  unadulterated  principles  and 
emotions.  All  very  well  for  a  second  son  — 

And  in  the  same  breath  he  recalled  his  father,  who  had  some 
how  succeeded  in  filling  a  great  position,  without  'nailing  his 
colours  to  the  weathercock '  —  a  favourite  aphorism  —  or 
sacrificing  the  greater  love  to  the  less.  Too  clearly  for  his 
comfort,  Van  remembered  their  last  talk  in  the  library,  when 
Avonleigh  and  its  mistress  had  been  gravely  committed  to  his 
charge. 

"My  work  out  there  will  absorb  all  my  energies.  Over  here, 
I  shall  rely  on  you"  Those  had  been  his  father's  last  words: 
and  he  had  acted  up  to  them.  He  didn't  half  like  this  Avon 
leigh  business.  Yet  he  had  simply  written:  "If  Avonleigh  is 
really  needed,  use  it.  You  are  on  the  spot  —  do  what  you 
think  fit."  And  he  himself  —  by  way  of  response  to  that 
tacit  appeal  —  had  simply  done  what  Schonberg  thought  fit 
from  first  to  last. 

What  the  deuce  would  his  father  say  if  he  ever  heard  all  — 
which  God  forbid?  And  why  did  he  —  Van  —  so  often  feel  a 
mere  thing  of  putty  in  Schonberg's  clumsy  yet  unerring  fingers? 
He  could  swear  he  had  never  intended  to  borrow  money  of  the 
man;  nor  could  he,  even  now,  tell  exactly  how  the  thing  had 
first  come  about.  Some  momentary  embarrassment;  Schonberg, 
half  sympathetic,  half  jocose,  insinuating  a  casual  hint  about 
'  aggommodation  between  friends ' ;  and  somehow  Van  had  been 
made  to  feel  as  if  he  were  rendering  a  service  instead  of  ac 
cepting  one.  But  still  —  every  now  and  then,  some  unexpected 
look  or  word,  the  disconcerting  way  he  opened  his  eyes  all  of  a 
sudden,  produced  a  vaguely  unpleasant  jar.  If  he  could  only 
get  quit  of  the  money  obligations,  the  position  would  be  less 


300  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

irksome.  In  fact,  he  must,  imperatively,  get  clear  somehow, 
before  his  own  father  returned.  A  thumping  good  marriage 
would  be  about  the  ticket.  The  charming  Cynthia  had  advan 
tages:  but  she  also  had  drawbacks.  And  there  were  scores  of 
others  in  the  market.  He  must  keep  his  eyes  open.  Have  a 
good  look  round  .  .  . 

It  was  at  this  point  that  the  talk  of  two  men,  standing  al 
most  at  his  elbow,  fairly  thrust  itself  upon  his  attention.  The 
nearest  one  was  describing  a  girl  he  had  met  at  the  Hotel 
Meurice. 

"Not  exactly  pretty,  y'  know;  but  simply  ripping.    Top 
ping  figure,   topping   eyes.     And   I'm   told   there's  money  — 
quite  a  good  little  bit.     Look,  there  she  is,  coming  out  of  the 
companion.     Ripping  profile  —  what?  " 

Van  turned  instinctively,  as  if  the  remarks  had  been  ad 
dressed  to  himself,  and  discovered  that  the  owner  of  the  top 
ping  figure  and  the  ripping  profile  was  a  girl  in  V.A.D.  uniform. 
Bad  luck  that  the  topping  figure  was  hidden  under  her  cloak. 
But  the  man  of  one  adjective  was  jolly  well  right  about  her 
eyes;  and  her  whole  aspect  had  an  indefinable  air  of  distinction 
that  pleased  his  critical  taste. 

Curiously  enough,  he  seemed  to  know  her.  Somewhere,  be 
fore,  he  had  seen  those  remarkable  eyes  and  brows  and  the 
quick  turn  of  her  head,  as  she  turned  to  speak  to  her  friend. 

The  friend  solved  the  problem.  "Honor  Lenox,  by  Jove!" 
said  Van  to  himself.  "And  the  charmer  must  be  old  Burlton's 
stepdaughter,  Gabrielle  de  Vigne." 

Decidedly  she  had  'come  on'  since  the  year  of  her  debut, 
—  when  he  had  danced  with  her  and  Sheila  at  the  Melrose 
entertainments;  and  he  felt  very  much  in  the  mood,  just  then, 
for  renewing  his  acquaintance  with  an  attractive  girl,  whose 
'good  little  bit'  of  money  was  not  the  least  of  her  charms. 

At  that  moment,  Honor  caught  sight  of  him;  and,  raising  his 
cap,  he  gladly  joined  them  and  explained  his  errand.  Her  sur 
prise  at  finding  him  on  a  Channel  boat  annoyed  him  consider 
ably:  but  talk  of  Derek,  and  their  concern  over  his  news,  eclipsed 
all  minor  matters. 


SMOKE  AND   FLAME  301 

Miss  de  Vigne  said  little;  only  her  sensitive  eyebrows  registered 
the  quick  play  of  thought  and  feeling  within.  Yes,  she  remem 
bered  dancing  with  him  that  season  and  the  next.  It  was  odd 
they  had  not  met  since;  but  she  was  no  Londoner. 

"And  now  —  "  she  paused  a  fraction  of  a  second.  "You  are 
prevented  from  taking  part  in  this  great  struggle  ?  But  what  a 
pity!" 

Van  agreed  that  it  was  very  bad  luck;  and,  to  escape  further 
awkwardness,  questioned  them  about  their  own  doings,  their 
present  destination. 

"We're  both  going  back  to  enjoy  a  breath  of  Home,"  Miss  de 
Vigne  told  him.  "  My  stepfather  wants  me  badly.  And,  after 
wards,  we've  promised  to  help  Mark  and  Sheila  —  have  you 
heard?" 

He  had  not  heard.  He  took  small  interest  in  Wynchcombe 
Friars  and  its  vagaries.  The  'Forsyth  crew'  were  too  stren 
uous,  too  artistic  for  his  taste.  But,  since  he  quite  intended  to 
see  more  of  Miss  de  Vigne,  he  welcomed  further  information. 

"They're  going  to  fit  up  the  house,"  she  went  on,  "as  a  small 
Auxiliary  Hospital.  They  hope  to  manage  about  twenty  men. 
Honor  and  Sheila  will  do  the  massage.  I  am  to  run  the  com 
missariat  and  look  after  the  wards.  Quartermaster,  in  fact!" 

"A  very  modest  part!"  He  would  have  added  a  trite  com 
pliment  about  wasting  her  sweetness;  but  instinct  warned  him 
that  small  change  of  that  sort  might  not  be  acceptable.  "I'll 
come  and  look  you  up  when  you're  settled  in,  just  to  see  how 
brilliantly  you  play  the  violet!  I  mostly  use  my  car  for  con 
valescents.  So  I  can  run  down,  week-ends,  and  give  Forsyth's 
lot  an  occasional  airing." 

His  glance  implied  more,  but  she  missed  it.  She  was  looking 
out  to  sea.  "That  would  be  delightful,"  she  said;  and  added 
irrelevantly  that  the  Macnairs  had  taken  a  house  at  Hendon. 
"He's  started  flying.  Isn't  he  wonderful?" 

"Foolhardy,  I  should  call  it,"  Van  replied  coolly.  He  was 
constantly  being  rubbed  up  by  the  way  in  which  these  super 
fluous  elderly  people  flaunted  their  excessive  energy  in  the  faces 
of  younger  men  —  no  less  usefully  employed. 


302  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Miss  de  Vigne  glanced  at  him  to  see  whether  he  was  joking. 
"If  our  race  was  not  rich  in  that  kind  of  foolhardiness,"  she 
said  quietly,  "I  wonder  where  we  should  be  now?" 

He  saw  he  had  made  a  false  step  and  retracted  it  gracefully. 
"My  mistake!  I  only  meant .  .  .  at  Macnair's  age.  .  .  .  But 
that,  after  all,  is  more  a  matter  of  temperament  than  of  anno 
domini."  And  he  unobtrusively  changed  the  subject. 

He  remained  with  the  two  girls  throughout  the  voyage; 
travelled  up  to  town  with  them;  saw  Miss  de  Vigne  into  the 
train  for  Hendon,  where  she  was  staying  the  night;  and  drove 
back  to  Avonleigh  House  feeling  better  satisfied  all  round 
than  he  had  done  for  some  time.  His  painful  and  reluctant 
journey  to  Rouen  had  unexpectedly  opened  the  door  to  agree 
able  possibilities.  And  he  intended  to  keep  the  door  open, 
even  if  he  took  his  time  about  going  through  — 


END   OF   BOOK   IV 


BOOK  V 
HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS 

CHAPTER  I 

We  are  but  warriors  for  the  •working  day 
But,  by  the  mass,  our  hearts  are  in  the  trim. 

SHAKESPEARE 

THE  library  at  Wynchcombe  Friars  scarcely  knew  itself  under 
the  altered  regime.  There,  where  Keith  had  worked  peacefully 
at  his  book,  men  in  hospital  blue  and  scarlet  ties  lounged,  very 
much  at  ease,  reading  cheap  literature  or  playing  cards,  till  the 
nine  o'clock  gong  sent  them  trooping  off  to  bed.  And  there, 
on  an  evening  of  early  April,  Mark  and  Derek  sat  smoking  in 
great  contentment,  because  the  Authorities  —  importuned  by 
Mark  —  had  mercifully  not  been  moved  to  disappoint  them  of 
their  hope. 

Early  that  afternoon,  Derek  had  been  added  to  the  Forsyth 
convalescent  colony;  and,  judging  from  his  general  condition,  he 
would  not  soon  be  moved  on  elsewhere.  His  unauthorized  dose 
of  gas  had  set  up  obstinate  gastric  and  lung  troubles;  and  the 
wound  in  his  groin  had  proved  a  troublesome  affair,  slow  to 
heal,  quick  to  inflame.  Finally,  X-rays  revealed  that  a  frag 
ment  of  metal  had  worked  its  way  into  his  body;  and  as  it 
shifted  continually,  its  removal  had  at  first  seemed  a  doubtful 
possibility. 

After  Van's  visit  to  Rouen,  there  had  been  a  serious  relapse; 
and,  on  recovery,  Derek  had  been  detailed  for  the  Riviera  on 
account  of  his  lungs.  There,  in  a  great  hotel  hospital,  at  the 
edge  of  the  Mediterranean,  he  had  slowly  drifted  back  to  life 
and  comparative  health;  and  there,  at  long  last,  the  wandering 
scrap  of  German  metal  had  been  captured,  extracted,  and  sent 


306  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

to  India,  at  Lord  Avonleigh's  particular  request.  By  that 
time,  the  hapless  Derek  was  sick  to  the  soul  of  operating  tables, 
the  smell  of  iodoform,  and  the  whole  colourless  routine  of  hos 
pital  life.  Even  now,  the  impress  of  it  was  on  him  still  —  the 
blue  suit  and  the  hated  scarlet  tie. 

It  was  just  after  nine  o'clock;  but  when  Sister  Barton  sum 
moned  her  charges,  Mark's  eye  had  signalled  "Wait  a  bit," 
and  Derek  had  lagged  behind  willingly  enough.  The  library, 
in  its  new  character,  contained  five  card  tables  adorned  with 
ash  trays  and  stumps  of  cigarettes.  The  desk,  sacred  to  Keith's 
labours,  served  for  fitful  scrawls  to  sweethearts  and  wives;  and 
on  the  top  of  it  waved  the  brazen  horn  of  a  gramophone. 

But  the  most  notable  change  was  in  Mark  himself.  Bronzed 
and  vigorous  looking,  he  lay  back  in  his  leather  chair.  Two 
stout,  crutch-handled  sticks  were  all  the  support  he  needed  now 
on  the  flat;  and  in  time  things  might  be  better  still.  Close  to 
his  feet  lay  the  faithful  'Bobs,'  using  his  master's  boot  for  a 
chin-rest,  and  casting  a  puzzled,  affectionate  eye  on  his  old 
friend  Derek,  with  the  right  voice  and  the  wrong  clothes;  a 
woefully  changed  Derek,  his  healthy  outdoor  aspect  clean  gone. 
War  and  suffering  had  chiselled  his  face  a  shade  too  sharply; 
and  his  eyes  seemed  to  have  retreated  deeper  into  his  head; 
but  in  them  the  light  of  his  spirit  burned  with  a  clear,  still 
flame. 

"The  chaps  who  tumble  into  these  quarters  between  hospital 
and  Command  depot  are  damned  lucky  beggars,"  he  announced, 
with  a  sigh  of  content;  and  Mark's  smile  signified  approval. 

"They  seem  happy  enough  and  we  love  having  them.  Your 
charming  brother's  been  quite  zealous  lately  about  turning  up 
and  spinning  them  round  the  country;  though  I  doubt  if  it 
amuses  him  —  or  them.  He's  coming  again  on  Saturday. 
You're  the  excuse  this  time,  I  suppose!" 

"What  d'you  mean  by  that?" 

A  faint  challenge  lurked  in  Derek's  tone. 

"Has  he  never  spoken  to  you  about  —  Gay?" 

"Now  and  then.    He  seems  to  admire  her." 

"Precisely.    I'm  half  afraid  —  he  means  to  annex  her." 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  307 

"Well  — why  not?" 

The  gleam  in  Derek's  eyes  made  Mark  lean  forward  and  pat 
his  knee.  "Steady  on,  old  bird!  You  know  I've  never  pre 
tended  to  like  Van.  We're  oil  and  water  —  we  don't  mix. 
He's  all  very  well  in  his  own  line.  Let  him  stick  to  it.  Gay 
isn't  his  line.  If  you  knew  her  as  well  as  we  do,  you'd  under 
stand.  Your  precious  Van  isn't  fit  to  tie  her  shoe  lace." 

"That  could  be  said  of  a  good  few  lovers  and  husbands." 

"It  could.     But  —  there  are  degrees  of  unfitness — " 

"See  here,  Mark,"  Derek  took  him  up  sharply.  "No  one 
sees  Van's  faults  plainer  than  I  do.  But  he  has  his  good 
points  —  and  a  wife  like  that  might  be  the  making  of  him,  if 
he  cares  — " 

"Quite  so.  But  he's  not  in  love,  if  7  know  anything  of  the 
symptoms.  And  Gay's  a  woman,  not  a  pleasing  appendage  to 
a  bank  account.  She  ought  to  have  the  real  big  thing." 

Derek  gravely  inclined  his  head.  "Do  you  imagine  —  she 
cares?" 

"  \Vell  —  she  doesn't  seem  to  discourage  him  and  she's  no 
coquette.  Sheila  ventured  a  few  remarks  the  other  day;  and 
Gay  was  quite  sweet  about  it,  but  quite  inscrutable.  Wait  till 
you  see  them  together,  and  just  take  notice.  Of  course,  if  she's 
misguided  enough  to  be  smitten  — " 

Derek  silenced  him  with  a  gesture.  "Let  be.  If  you  can't 
bridle  your  tongue,  your  religion  is  vain;  and  I'll  apply  to  be 
lodged  elsewhere  — !" 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Sheila. 

"Sister  wants  to  know  what's  become  of  Sergeant  Blount!" 
she  said  —  very  demure  and  charming  in  her  blue  uniform ; 
and  her  smile  passed  from  Derek  to  Mark.  "The  Commandant 
will  have  to  keep  his  favouritism  within  bounds!" 

"Favouritism?  We'd  almost  come  to  blows.  Derek's  go 
ing  to  apply  for  an  exchange." 

"Oh,  dry  up!"  Derek  rose  and  limped  towards  the  door. 
But  Sheila  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Has  he  been  very  unspeakable?  He's  getting  so  fearfully 
well,  these  days,  there's  no  holding  him." 


3o8  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Mark,  who  had  swung  himself  up  with  the  help  of  his  sticks, 
smiled  down  on  them  both,  cheerfully  impenitent;  and  Sheila's 
eyes  lingered  on  him  with  the  same  mingling  of  pride  and  ten 
derness  that  had  struck  at  Derek's  heart  on  their  wedding  day. 
But  the  underlying  pathos  was  gone. 

"Dear,  you  must  come  now.  The  men  are  in  great  spirits. 
They've  got  up  a  guard  of  honour  to  receive  you!" 

The  guard  of  honour,  in  grey  regulation  sleeping-suits  and 
regulation  slippers,  was  drawn  up  near  the  door  of  the  main 
ward  that  had  once  been  the  billiard  room.  It  was  armed  with 
whistles,  mouth  organs,  and  a  concertina,  crutches  for  trom 
bones,  and  the  horn  of  a  wrecked  gramophone.  It  greeted  its 
Commandant  with  a  brave  discord  of  squealings  and  thrum- 
mings,  whence  presently  emerged  the  cheerful  strains  of  '  Bonnie 
Dundee ':  and  Derek,  suddenly  beset  with  shyness,  hurried  down 
the  oak-panelled  room  to  his  own  bed,  and  carried  off  his 
sleeping-suit  to  the  corrugated  iron  wash  house. 

Returning  later,  he  found  the  guard  of  honour  dissolved  into 
human  fragments  that  were  playing  the  fool  assiduously,  for 
their  own  edification.  In  his  own  corner,  one  Corporal  Cum 
mins  —  with  the  sorrowful  eyes  and  loose  mouth  of  the  born 
low  comedian  —  was  solemnly,  drunkenly,  trying  to  gather  up 
his  cast-off  garments ;  shedding  a  fresh  one  each  tune  he  stooped 
to  rescue  the  lost  sheep;  and  regarding  it  with  a  gaze  of  por 
tentous  reproachfulness  as  he  lunged  afresh  with  precisely  the 
same  result.  The  creature  was  perfectly  happy,  though  no  one 
seemed  even  to  notice  him,  except  Derek  —  and  Bobs,  who 
made  unheeded  overtures  to  flirtation  by  capturing  a  sock. 

The  mam  group  had  gathered  round  the  great  tiled  fireplace, 
where  Sister  Barton  and  Sheila  were  dispensing  nightly  doses, 
while  the  rest  scrambled  into  bed;  and  Derek  thankfully  fol 
lowed  suit.  He  felt  too  new  and  too  shy  to  join  the  group  by 
the  fire  or  to  take  part  in  the  chaff  that  flowed  freely  while  the 
men  waited  for  their  dole  of  milk  and  cake. 

Cummins  —  having  rescued  his  last  least  garment  and  stolen 
a  covert  coat  —  was  now  engaged  in  apeing  the  doctor  from 
Winchester.  Armed  with  a  bath  thermometer  and  a  brass 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  309 

candlestick,  he  gravely  explored  lungs,  tested  temperatures, 
and  wrote  out  farcical  prescriptions  to  the  huge  delight  of  his 
uncritical  audience,  who  could  not  succeed  in  upsetting  his 
gravity,  chaff  they  never  so  wildly. 

And  Derek  —  looking  on  from  his  corner  —  had  a  sudden 
vision  of  bedtime  in  the  trenches  —  rats  and  lice  and  the  nightly 
dose  of  'Hate'  from  over  the  way;  living  and  dead  and  dying 
so  hideously  intermingled  that  the  strongest  nerves  were  strained 
to  breaking-point;  and  there,  as  here,  the  lambent  flame  of 
humour  playing  over  all:  there,  as  here,  jokes,  even  of  the 
fourth  magnitude,  greeted  with  gusts  of  Homeric  laughter. 
And  while  a  man  can  laugh  in  that  key  his  sanity  is  secure. 

Suddenly  he  sighted,  afar  off,  his  hostess  of  Silversands,  in 
Breton  cap  and  blue  uniform,  dispensing  supper  to  a  dozen 
hungry  men.  He  had  not  seen  her  since  his  arrival;  and  it 
annoyed  him  to  feel  so  acutely  at  a  disadvantage  in  greeting  a 
girl  who  was  more  than  an  acquaintance,  yet  scarcely  a  friend. 
He  compromised  matters  by  a  shy  salute  as  she  came  towards 
him. 

"Mark  told  me  you  had  come,  and  I  was  delighted,"  she 
said  with  her  smiling  directness.  "  I'm  rather  in  the  background 
on  cake-making  afternoons." 

Her  voice,  with  its  faintly  crisp  intonation  and  the  expressive 
play  of  her  brows,  awoke  vivid  memories  of  Silversands  and 
Jack  and  Lois;  but  at  the  moment,  Mark's  talk  of  Van  was 
uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"You  don't  look  the  same  man,"  she  added,  with  a  troubled 
air  of  concern.  "You  must  have  had  a  horrid  time." 

"Pretty  bad,"  he  admitted;  and  she  smiled  at  the  flagrant 
under-statement.  "A  treat  compared  with  what  some  fellows 
have  had  to  stick.  And  after  all  I've  come  through  it  —  more 
or  less." 

"Yes:  —  that's  the  supreme  achievement.  And  it  will  be 
more,  not  less,  before  we've  done  with  you!  But  I'm  on  duty; 
and  I  mustn't  stay  talking  now  —  Good-night." 

He  saluted  again  and  watched  her  thoughtfully  as  she  crossed 
over  to  the  opposite  bed. 


310  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

He  was  still  thinking  of  her  chiefly  in  connection  with  Van. 
He  was  even  admitting  that  Mark  had  a  fraction  of  right  on 
his  side.  Dispassionately  considered,  she  was  not  exactly  in 
Van's  line.  But  if  he  really  cared  and  succeeded  in  winning 
her,  well  —  it  would  be  just  like  his  luck. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  face  that's  best 
By  its  own  beauty  drest, 
And  can  alone  commend  the  rest. 


A  heart, 

For  whose,  more  noble  smart, 
Love  may  be  long  choosing  a  dart. 

RICHARD  CRASHAW 

As  for  Van  —  entrenched  in  his  comfortable  London  quarters 
• —  he  was  distinctly  pleased  with  Fate,  in  the  person  of  Mark, 
for  depositing  Derek  at  Wynchcombe  Friars.  He  could  now  be 
as  zealous  as  he  chose  in  ministering  to  Forsyth's  convales 
cents,  without  prematurely  compromising  either  himself  or  Miss 
de  Vigne;  and  Van  was  a  very  Peer  Gynt  in  his  reluctance  to 
burn  boats,  or  close  the  convenient  doorway  of  retreat. 

Mark  had  made  a  fair  shot  at  the  truth.  Gabrielle  de  Vigne 
—  as  a  girl  with  her  head  on  her  shoulders  and  money  in  her 
purse  —  wras  very  much  '  in  the  running '  as  the  prospective 
Lady  Avonleigh;  and  the  fact  that  she  was  difficult  of  access 
tended  to  raise  her  value  in  the  eyes  of  an  'eligible'  surfeited 
with  the  too  coming-on  disposition  of  the  modern  society  girl. 
Ker  light,  unassailable  dignity  made  a  man  feel  absurdly  flat 
tered  by  her  least  concessions.  Too  lazy  to  rise  above  the 
levels,  he  could,  and  did,  appreciate,  up  to  a  point,  the  'style 
and  manners  of  the  sky.'  He  knew  her  capable;  had  heard  of 
her  as  clever;  a  linguist,  with  a  taste  for  serious  reading.  But 
at  least  she  had  the  tact  not  to  flourish  her  intellect  in  a  man's 
face;  and  the  play  of  it  under  the  surface  enhanced  her  quality 
and  her  charm.  The  lively  Cynthia  was  better  company  and 
better  dowered;  but,  indirectly,  he  had  gathered  that  she  was 
shrewd  and  a  little  difficult  about  her  money;  though  appar- 


312  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

ently  willing  to  spend  it  like  water  in  the  Allied  cause.  At 
present  she  was  running  a  refreshment  hut  in  Boulogne;  and 
over  the  uncaptured  kingdom  of  Van's  heart,  Gabrielle  de 
Vigne  reigned  in  her  stead. 

But,  first,  he  must  see  and  know  more  of  the  lady;  to  which 
end  Dirks  might  contribute  involuntary  help.  It  was  a  bit  of 
a  drawback  that  the  pursuit  of  closer  intimacy  involved  much 
motoring  round  Hampshire  with  wounded  soldiers.  The  best 
of  good  fellows,  of  course.  In  theory,  one  could  not  do  enough 
for  them.  But,  conversationally,  a  bit  heavy  in  hand.  At  all 
events,  they  had  the  merit  of  never  pulling  long  faces  over  the 
War  and  giving  a  man  the  blues.  He,  too,  had  the  merit  —  or 
rather  the  grace  —  to  know  himself  a  secondary  consideration 
in  Miss  de  Vigne's  eyes,  where  they  were  concerned.  Now  and 
then  he  had  ventured  to  chaff  her  about  it,  for  the  pure  pleasure 
of  getting  a  rise  out  of  her,  and  seeing  her  face  kindle  with 
genuine  feeling. 

But,  in  serious  moods,  he  instinctively  played  up  to  her 
points  of  view;  above  all  as  regards  his  lamentable  failure  to 
appear  in  khaki,  as  to  which  he  still  suffered  occasional  qualms. 
It  was  so  fast  becoming  the  only  wear,  that  there  were  moments 
when  a  man  in  plain  clothes  had  an  awkward  sense  of  being  out 
of  it.  Yet  —  in  the  very  hidden  place,  where  Van  was  some 
times  honest  with  himself  —  he  knew  well  enough  that  he 
would  sooner  be  'out  of  it,'  over  here,  than  'in  it'  over  there: 
and,  because  he  was  secretly  grateful  to  the  'Government 
umbrella,'  that  catch  phrase  was  apt  to  touch  him  on  the  raw. 
But  at  present  the  whole  matter  could  be  dismissed  as  a  side 
issue  so  long  as  it  did  not  affect  Miss  de  Vigne. 

On  Friday  he  motored  down  into  Hampshire  feeling  unusu 
ally  keen  for  a  sight  of  her.  He  would  try  and  persuade  her 
to  join  his  party;  and  if  it  came  off  —  well,  he  would  count  it  a 
good  omen. 

It  was  one  of  those  rare  April  days  that  are  a  heavenly  fore 
taste  of  June,  yet  retain  the  hidden  reserves  of  beauty,  the 
veiled  promise  of  spring ;  and  its  effect  on  Van  was  to  make  liim 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  313 

wish  all  wounded  soldiers  at  Jericho.  If  only  he  could  carry  off 
Miss  de  Vigne,  alone,  for  an  hour's  spin  —  and  chance  the 
outcome !  But  he  was  too  innately  a  connoisseur  of  the  emotions 
to  rush  his  fences.  Also,  she  would  be  pretty  sure  to  refuse  the 
invitation. 

As  he  swung  round  the  final  curve  of  the  drive,  he  caught 
sight  of  her,  coming  up  from  the  great  pine  wood  with  half  a 
dozen  men  in  blue  and  grey:  Derek  among  them,  limping  badly 
with  a  stick  in  place  of  the  detested  crutches. 

When  the  car  drew  up  they  shouted  'Cheero!'  and  waved 
their  caps;  but  only  Derek  came  forward. 

"Good  old  Van  —  playing  the  giddy  war  worker!  Going  to 
give  this  poor  cripple  a  lift  in  your  Rolls-Royce  ? ' ' 

"That  was  the  idea!"  Van's  smile  passed  beyond  him:  and 
to  Gabrielle  he  lifted  his  cap,  as  he  sprang  out  of  the  car. 
"Won't  you  come  along  too,  .Miss  de  Vigne?"  he  asked  when 
they  joined  the  group.  "It's  a  ripping  day.  With  a  bit  of  a 
squeeze  I  could  take  the  lot." 

"Very  kind!"  she  said  with  a  glance  of  approval,  "but  I'm 
afraid  not  all  of  us  are  takeable." 

"We're  gyme,  anyway,"  remarked  the  cockney,  who  was 
Derek's  ward  neighbour:  and  they  moved  on  to  the  house, 
leaving  Gabrielle  and  Van  together  under  the  almond  tree. 

Van  had  a  moment  of  awkwardness:  proof  that  he  was  more 
deeply  involved  than  he  knew. 

"Ripping  day,"  he  said  again.  One  had  to  make  a  start 
somehow;  and  spring  at  her  loveliest,  justified  the  fatuous 
repetition.  "I'm  getting  no  end  keen  on  driving  these  cheery 
fellows  round  the  country." 

"They  are  a  specially  nice  lot,"  she  said  simply.  "And 
goodness  knows  it's  a  privilege  to  do  anything  for  them." 

"It's  you  that  makes  one  feel  it  so.  Your  own  keenness  is 
infectious." 

A  pause.  No  use  trying  to  convey  wordless  messages.  Her 
eyes  were  resting  on  the  blue  distance  beyond  a  dip  in  the  ridge. 
His  own  dwelt  a  moment  on  the  alluring  curves  of  her  figure  — 
supple  without  undue  slenderness  —  and  on  the  profile  view 


3i4  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

that  he  had  of  her  face:  the  straight  nose  with  its  sensitive 
nostril,  the  slightly  full  underlip  and  the  dent  of  common  sense 
above  the  rounded,  resolute  chin:  the  whole  imbued  with  the 
light  alertness  of  spirit  that  was  her  peculiar  charm.  Her  si 
lence  piqued  him;  and  he  waxed  bolder  still. 

"Miss  de  Vigne,  won't  you  do  us  all  a  big  favour  this  once, 
and  come  along,  too?" 

She  turned  to  him  with  her  frank  smile.  "I  can't  —  honestly 
I'm  sorry." 

He  did  not  conceal  his  disappointment.  "What's  the  mys 
terious  difficulty?  Do  you  ever  say  'Yes'  inadvertently?  Or 
am  I  peculiarly  singled  out  for  the  answer  in  the  negative?  " 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  have  notice  of  that  question!"  she  parried 
lightly.  "This  is  my  baking  afternoon.  My  cakes  are  rather 
a  speciality  and  the  men  love  them.  That  solves  the  mystery 
of  one  negative." 

"Bad  luck!  Wish  I  could  stay  and  sample  them.  But  you 
might  sometimes  take  a  day  off.  How  about  the  dire  results  of 
all  work  and  no  play?  " 

She  drew  in  her  lip.  "I'm  afraid  those  of  us  who  have  been 
hit  hard  —  by  the  War,  must  accept  the  risk  of  becoming  '  dull 
boys.'" 

"Miss  de  Vigne  —  forgive  me!"  Van  pleaded,  genuinely 
moved.  "I  never  meant  anything  personal.  I'm  afraid  I  wras 
only  thinking  of  myself,  and  the  pleasure  I  lose  by  your  devotion 
to  duty." 

"But  —  there's  truth  in  it.  One  is  thankful  for  work  that 
really  needs  doing;  and  one  lacks  —  the  holiday  mood.  So  you 
must  forgive!  My  dear  poilus  in  the  Paris  hospital  seemed 
to  understand  I  was  passing  through  the  shadow.  I  found  they 
had  a  name  for  me  among  themselves  — "  She  hesitated. 

"  Madonna  of  all  the  Mercies  ?  "  Van  asked  softly — and  she 
caught  her  breath. 

"  No  —  '  la  jeune  fille  scrieuse.' " 

"Charming!     Fits  you  to  perfection.     But  I  hope  it  won't 
fit  you  always:  and  I  think  —  I  like  my  own  shot  best." 
"  Yours !     Where  did  you  get  it  from  ? ' ' 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  315 

"Out  of  my  head.  A  flash  of  inspiration.  It  seemed  — 
appropriate." 

"To  a  disagreeable  person  who  says  'No'  on  principle?" 

"Not  at  all.  To  one  of  the  kindest  and  most  charming 
women  I've  ever  met." 

His  tone  carried  conviction,  and  it  pleased  him  to  see  the 
colour  deepen  in  her  cheeks.  The  slow  blush  was  his  only 
answer:  and  he  added  gently:  "Please  don't  think  me  presump 
tuous.  I'm  not  talking  polite  drivel.  I'm  only  trying,  rather 
rottenly,  to  express  my  feeling  of  something  different  about 
you  that,  after  all,  can't  be  expressed.  It's  unseizable;  a  quality 
—  an  atmosphere  —  your  Frenchness,  perhaps  — 

She  turned  to  him  now  without  a  shade  of  embarrassment. 
"Is  it  so  noticeable  —  my  Frenchness?" 

"No.  That's  not  the  word.  It  permeates  you  all  through, 
without  making  you  a  shade  less  English  in  essence.  There  — 
I've  hit  it  rather  neatly  —  what?" 

"Though  you  said  it  couldn't  be  expressed? "  Their  eyes  met 
in  a  friendly  amusement  that  deepened  to  a  friendlier  tender 
ness.  "It  permeates  —  that  is  the  word.  Two  years  in  French 
Canada  and  eighteen  months  out  there  have  made  me  realize 
how  very  much  I  am  two  national  souls  in  one  body." 

"And  which  has  the  biggest  pull?" 

"Honestly,  I  can't  say.  And  I  like  the  equal  balance; 
especially  just  now  when  my  two  national  selves  are  so  splen 
didly  at  one.  In  Paris  I  found  it  marvellous.  But  then  — 
Paris  is  one  of  the  miracles  of  the  War.  Over  here  —  perhaps 
my  eyes  are  sharpened  by  absence  —  but  I  seem  to  feel  subtle 
changes  creeping  into  the  bones  and  marrow  of  England,  that 
are  not  entirely  to  the  good." 

"As  how?" 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "Too  long  a  tale!  And 
you  would  probably  disagree.  But,  to  me,  the  war  spirit  of 
la  belle  France  seems  to  burn  with  a  purer  flame.  Natural, 
perhaps.  Her  sacred  body  is  in  the  grip  of  the  Beast.  The 
more  need  to  keep  undimmed  her  lamp  of  the  spirit.  Of  course 
there  are  still  doubtful  elements.  Politically,  she  has  not  yet 


316  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

found  her  soul.  For  that  matter  —  nor  has  England,  nor 
America.  Will  they  —  ever  .  .  .  ?  " 

"Oh,  Lord,  yes,"  Van  assured  her,  less  from  conviction  than 
from  desire  to  have  done  with  abstractions.  He  was  far  more 
concerned,  just  then,  with  the  charms  of  one  woman,  than  with 
the  spiritual  grace  of  nations.  "Leave  'em  alone  and  they'll 
come  home.  We  small  fry  can't  twist  the  tails  of  the  great. 
So  —  why  worry?  " 

At  that  moment,  to  his  vexation,  Mark  came  along  in  the 
wheeled  chair,  with  Derek  and  four  candidates  for  a  drive. 
Van  promptly  turned  his  appearance  to  account. 

"I  say,  Forsyth,  I  want  Miss  de  Vigne  to  come,  too,"  he  an 
nounced  boldly,  on  the  heels  of  his  greeting.  "It  would  do  her 
no  end  of  good.  She  says  she  has  got  to  stay  and  make  cakes. 
Sinful  —  on  a  day  like  this." 

"Please  note,  that's  Mr.  Blount's  version!"  Gabrielle  struck 
in  with  a  lift  of  her  head. 

Mark  was  on  the  point  of  backing  her  up,  when  Derek's  eye 
signalled  unofficially:  "Give  him  a  chance!"  And  Mark,  even 
in  antagonism,  could  not  be  other  than  human. 

"Have  a  spin  by  all  means,  if  you  feel  like  it,"  he  said,  with 
a  friendly  twinkle  at  Gabrielle.  "  Blount's  right.  It  isn't  a 
day  for  the  kitchen.  I'm  for  Westover  to  meet  Mother  and 
Keith." 

"Come  on,  Nurse.  Be  a  sport,"  from  the  candidates;  and 
from  Derek,  "I'll  knock  out  if  it's  too  much  of  a  squeeze." 

"Rather  not,"  Van  retorted  in  high  satisfaction.  "You 
won't  say  'No'  now,  Miss  de  Vigne?  A  thumping  majority  and 
Commandant's  orders." 

"I  can't,"  she  said  very  quietly,  so  that  the  others,  who  were 
talking,  did  not  hear.  "You  forced  my  hand." 

"Make  allowances.     Don't  spoil  it  all." 

"  Of  course  not.  I  shall  love  it.  But  the  end  doesn't  justify 
the  means!" 

Then  she  hurried  away  into  the  house,  while  Van  joined  the 
men  who  were  standing  round  the  car. 

She  sat  between  the  brothers  in  front.    Baird,  Cummins,  a 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  317 

soldier  mechanic  and  a  pallid  boy,  recovering  from  shell  shock, 
were  bidden  to  tumble  in  behind.  " Smoking  compartment! 
Make  yourselves  at  home!"  said  Van  with  his  kindly,  uncon 
scious  note  of  patronage,  indicating  a  flap-pocket  full  of  cigar 
ettes.  With  grateful  murmurs  they  took  him  at  his  word, 
and  the  car  slid  along  the  drive,  out  into  open  country  — 

It  was  a  day  of  days  on  wThich  to  roll  swiftly  and  easily  past 
meadows  and  copses  and  uplands  lightly  veiled  with  new  green. 
Here  and  there  primroses  gleamed,  and  a  few  deluded  butter 
flies  were  out.  Life  resurgent  seemed  everywhere  to  defy  the 
lurking  shadow  of  death.  Yet,  on  just  such  days  —  was  it 
mere  perversity?  —  that  shadow  lay  heaviest  on  Gabrielle's 
heart. 

"And  out  there — !"  was  the  thought  that  thrust  itself 
darkling  between  her  and  the  primroses  and  the  butterflies  and 
the  dappled  sky. 

Derek,  who  suffered  from  the  same  form  of  intrusion,  caught 
the  reflection  of  it  in  her  eyes.  Not  so  Van.  Disquieting 
thoughts,  like  hawkers  and  circulars,  were  not  admitted.  The 
passing  effect  produced  on  him,  by  anxiety  for  Derek  and  that 
visit  to  France,  had  never  been  allowed  to  reassert  itself.  And 
to-day  —  spinning  through  Hampshire  with  the  girl  he  had 
almost  decided  to  marry  —  his  limited  cup  of  content  was 
full. 

Between  spells  of  silence,  that  drifted  them  miles  away  from 
each  other,  they  talked  easily  and  pleasantly  of  surface  things. 
Gabrielle's  interest  was  centred,  at  the  moment,  on  an  enter 
tainment  that  Mark  and  his  mother  were  planning  for  their 
little  colony.  Mrs.  Macnair  was  'making  hay'  among  distin 
guished  singers  and  musicians  for  the  first  half  of  the  programme; 
and  the  second  half  was  to  be  an  informal  amateur  affair,  mainly 
contributed  by  the  men  themselves.  Gabrielle,  having  owned 
up  to  a  gift  for  dramatic  recitation,  was  booked  for  two  items; 
and  Van  declared  that,  even  if  he  had  to  sleep  on  the  terrace  or 
motor  back  at  midnight,  he  must  be  there  to  hear. 

" Nothing  so  desperate,  I  hope!"  she  said;  and  her  smile  had 
again  the  tinge  of  amusement  that  piqued  him  like  a  challenge. 


3i8  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"I've  no  doubt  Mark  could  find  room  for  you;  especially  if  you 
would  favour  us  with  an  item  ?  " 

"Can't  be  done  —  worse  luck!  I'm  a  duffer  in  the  per 
forming  line,  but  I'm  At  in  the  auditorium." 

"Van  can  only  'smile  and  smile  and  be  a  villain,'"  Derek 
remarked  with  his  baffling  gravity.  "And  the  smiling  phase  is 
very  becoming." 

"You  shut  up  or  I'll  pitch  you  into  the  smoking  compart 
ment,"  Van  retorted,  not  altogether  in  joke;  for  the  gleam  of 
amusement  had  deepened  in  Gabrielle's  eyes.  "About  time 
you  took  a  turn  at  the  wheel  —  if  you'll  guarantee  not  to  up 
set  the  apple-cart." 

"I  won't  guarantee  anything,  but  I'm  game,"  said  magnan 
imous  Derek;  and  the  exchange  was  effected,  to  Van's  complete 
satisfaction.  It  set  him  free  for  more  intimate  talk;  while 
Derek  —  competent  but  unskilled  —  had  to  concentrate  his 
attention  on  the  wheel. 

Unmistakably,  something  was  up,  he  decided,  and  wished 
Van  luck  with  his  venture.  Miss  de  Vigne  would  be  a  genuine 
asset  as  a  member  of  the  family. 

By  the  time  they  got  back,  tea  on  the  terrace  was  in  full 
swing.  The  Macnairs  had  arrived  for  the  week-end;  and  the 
coming  entertainment  was  the  topic  of  the  hour.  Gabrielle, 
with  a  heightened  colour  and  blown  wisps  of  hair  about  her 
temples,  looked  unmistakably  fresher  and  happier  for  playing 
the  truant.  But  the  precious  cakes  were  still  lurking  at  the 
back  of  her  mind;  and,  in  spite  of  murmured  remonstrances 
from  Van,  she  made  short  work  of  her  tea.  Then  she  hurried 
away  without  vouchsafing  him  a  personal  word  or  parting  look. 

By  way  of  consolation,  he  succeeded  in  securing  a  bed  for 
the  3oth;  and  thereafter  set  out  upon  his  long  spin  to  Avon- 
leigh,  feeling  very  well  satisfied  with  himself  and  the  day's 
achievements. 


CHAPTER  III 

Heaven's  own  screen 

Hides  her  soul's  purest  depths  and  loveliest  glow; 
Closely  withheld,  as  all  things  most  unseen: 
The  wave-bmvered  pearl,  the  heart-shaped  seal  of  green 
That  fleck  the  snowdrop  underneath  the  snow. 

ROSSETTI 

FOR  Derek,  that  first  spell  of  life  at  Wynchcombe  Friars  was  a 
time  of  blessed  tranquillity  and  well-being,  such  as  he  had  not 
known  since  he  sailed  from  Bombay.  With  the  blossoming  of 
tree  and  flower,  the  stir  of  rising  sap  in  coppice  and  woodland, 
he  too  felt  the  blood  quicken  in  his  body  and  the  thoughts 
quicken  in  his  brain  that  had  too  long  lain  fallow,  through  sheer 
physical  weakness  and  the  tyranny  of  pain.  Fate,  he  whim 
sically  supposed,  must  have  been  afflicted  with  a  fit  of  absent- 
mindedness  when  she  steered  him  into  the  very  haven  where 
he  would  be;  where,  after  months  of  hospital  routine,  he  could 
enjoy  a  whiff  of  personal  liberty  —  the  breath  of  life.  No 
escape,  even  here,  from  rules  and  regulations ;  though  there  were 
lighter  hands  on  the  reins.  No  escape  anywhere  from  the 
myrrh  and  frankincense  of  the  halfpenny  press;  almost  as  gall 
ing,  in  its  way,  to  men  of  certain  types  —  of  whom  Derek  was 
one,  and  his  cockney  neighbour  another.  Barnes,  who  throve 
on  grievances,  kept  his  more  placid  comrades  up  to  the  mark 
by  intermittent  explosions  in  his  Hyde  Park  vein  of  an  earlier 
day. 

"Jes'  look  at  that  now!"  he  would  cry,  flourishing  a  news- 
sheet,  bespattered  with  grinning  faces:  "Straike  me  pink! 
What  they  want  to  go  makin'  bloody  fools  of  us  that  way? 
'Cause  we've  spoke  our  minds  to  Fritzie,  an'  brought  'ome  'is 
playful  little  souvy-neers  in  ower  insides,  are  we  arskin'  to  be 
slobbered  over  by  wimmen  an'  mettymorphussed  into  nickel- 


320  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

plyted  'eroes?  Wot  we  do  arst  —  an'  don't  git  —  is  to  be 
treated  just  an'  fair,  like  any  ornery  bloke,  wot  'asn't  bin  fool 
enough  to  get  crocked  up  fer  King  an'  country.  While  one 
lot's  insultin'  us  with  this  'ero  touch,  t'other  lot's  engyged  in 
pinchin'  our  pay  books  an'  tyin'  us  up  with  regyerlations, 
fear  we'd  play  the  skunk  ef  we  got  a  mite  o'  freedom.  Wonder 
they  don't  clap  us  in  leg-irons,  so's  we  cawn't  git  runnin'  too 
far  from  'Ome  Sweet  'Ome.  \Vot  say,  coves?  Straikin'  seems 
to  be  the  fashion  over  this  side.  Vote  we  do  a  bit  too!  Jes' 
show  'em  'ow  —  "  Shouts  of  ironic  applause. 

"An'  what  about  them  rations  we  git  in  the  papers?  "  quavered 
the  shell-shock  boy. 

"Winder-dressin',  lovey!"  jeered  the  ironic  Barnes.  "Fillin' 
to  the  eye,  though  not  to  the  stummic.  We  blokl^  in  the 
trenches  got  ter  be  gryteful  ef  we  see  enough  to  swear  by. 
'Tis  the  good  little  boys  at  the  Byse  as  collars  all  the  plums." 

"They  do  thaht,"  Baird  confirmed  him  in  broad  Scots. 
"  Ah've  been  there,  an'  likely  ma  crocked  chest  'ull  tak  me  there 
ag'in,  if  they  dinna  pass  me  oot  onfit.  Ah  wasna  mighty  fit 
when  ah  joined,  an'  ah've  bin  through  all  the  hells  since  Monsse. 
But  ah'll  niver  git  ma  wee  bit  penshin,  if  they  chiels  can  prove 
it  amang  them  that  ma  chest's  a  bit  o'  civeelian  oreeginal  sin,  or 
worrit  me  to  put  in  fur  release  on  substitootion.  But  ma 
wurrd,  ah'm  canny.  Ah'll  stick  it,  till  ah  croomble  oop  — 

"An'  then  they'll  give  yer  a  dog's  burial,  an'  charge  yer  corp 
for  the  buryin'  blanket,"  chirped  Barnes. 

There  were  cries  of  'Shame!'  But  Baird  solemnly  shook 
his  head. 

"Not  in  oor  regimint,  mon.  Oor  orficers  agreed  amang  them 
to  charrge  they  blankets  fur  lost.  Sir-r  Mark  tell't  me  so 
himsel'.  An'  isn't  he  after  hammerin'  the  noo  at  they  thick 
heads  that  be  turrnin'  the  British  Ar-rmy  into  a  gang  o'  Social 
ists?  All  ah'm  sayin'  is  —  wait  till  the  Boys  come  home!" 

Some  vocalist  started  warbling  "Boys  in  khaki,  boys  in  blue," 
and  Derek  —  who  sat  at  Keith's  desk  trying  to  write  to  his  father 
• —  gave  it  up  in  despair.  Pocketing  his  letter,  he  swung  round 
on  the  swivel  seat  and  joined  in  a  general  sing-song  till  bedtime. 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  321 

The  mail  letter  was  achieved  next  morning,  in  the  quiet  of 
Mark's  study,  where  he  was  privileged  to  sit,  on  occasion:  a 
privilege  so  welcome  to  both  that  Mark  decided  to  promote  him 
to  orderly  room  clerk,  as  soon  as  he  had  been  long  enough  'in 
residence'  to  justify  the  innovation.  Meanwhile,  Derek  was 
grateful  exceedingly  for  the  passing  respite  from  his  very  good 
friends  below  stairs:  —  never  more  so  than  on  mail  day. 

He  had  much  to  say  to  his  father;  and  more  that,  unhappily, 
could  not  be  said  without  implicating  Van.  By  this  time,  he 
was  convinced  that  Schonberg  was  behind  the  Avonleigh 
scheme;  for  it  appeared  to  be  run  on  lavish  lines.  His  Uncle, 
Sir  Vyvian  Blount  —  who  often  visited  him  in  hospital  —  had, 
on  the  last  occasion,  asked  him  some  straight  questions  about 
the  whole  affair;  and  Derek,  in  framing  his  answers,  had  been 
badly  torn  between  concern  for  Avonleigh  and  his  persistent 
loyalty  to  Van.  Sir  Vyvian's  vigorous  handshake  at  parting 
had  left  him  half  fearful,  half  hopeful,  that  the  shrewd  old 
General  might  have  read  between  the  lines.  Worse  still,  a 
chance  conversation  in  the  ward,  one  evening,  had  sug 
gested  a  possible  clue  to  Schonberg's  mysterious  zeal. 

Two  convalescents,  who  had  been  out  with  friends,  were 
protesting,  in  the  usual  vein,  against  the  incurable  official 
leniency  to  enemy  aliens,  after  eighteen  months  of  war.  One 
of  them  produced  damning  evidence  that  German  women,  with 
a  fluent  command  of  English,  were  still  worming  their  way 
into  hospitals,  as  attendants  or  Swedish  masseuses,  in 
order  to  pick  up  talk  about  the  War.  As  a  rule,  it  seemed, 
they  favoured  Homes  and  Hospitals  for  officers,  who  were 
more  apt  to  provide  their  unsuspected  listeners  with  useful 
material  — 

At  that  point  a  fit  of  caution  took  the  speaker;  but  Derek 
had  heard  more  than  enough. 

The  bare  possibility  of  Avonleigh  being  so  utilized  had  filled 
him  with  helpless  rage.  Schonberg,  he  knew,  found  time  to 
run  down  there  pretty  frequently;  and  Van  —  he  guessed  — 
would  be  unlikely  to  trouble  his  head  over  such  trivial  details 
as  the  testimonials  or  precise  nationality  of  his  hospital  staff. 


322  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

It  was  hateful;  too  bad  to  be  true.  It  savoured  of  cheap  tales 
he  had  read  in  the  trenches,  when  no  decent  stuff  was  avail 
able.  He  could  not  bear  to  believe  it  of  Van. 

More  than  once  he  had  been  on  the  verge  of  challenging  him 
with  a  direct  question,  and  had  only  been  restrained  by  fore 
knowledge  of  futility.  They  would  simply  quarrel  again.  And 
the  indirect  method,  of  probing  others  with  hints  or  questions 
that  might  implicate  his  brother,  was  so  inherently  distasteful 
to  him  that  he  scarcely  gave  it  a  thought.  Van  had  all  the 
facts.  Let  him  tell  his  own  tale  unhampered  by  comments 
that  might  be  inaccurate,  therefore  unjust. 

That  hidden  sense  of  worry  was  the  only  disturbing  element 
during  those  wonderful  spring  days,  when  the  breath  of  renewal 
blew  clean  and  strong  through  all  the  avenues  of  his  being. 

His  brief  but  vital  period  in  France  —  the  comradeship,  the 
horrors,  the  intimacy  with  overmastering  pain,  and  that  half- 
conscious  hovering  on  the  edge  of  things  —  seemed  to  have 
sharply  cut  his  life  in  two:  and  burned  away  the  aftermath  of 
his  early,  tragic  blunder.  Having  made  an  unholy  muddle  of 
things  in  the  first  instance,  it  looked  as  if  he  were  to  be  allowed 
a  fresh  chance,  in  kinder  circumstances.  The  idea  was  a 
pleasant  fancy,  if  no  more.  It  revived  the  hopeless  hope  that 
somewhere  there  awaited  him  an  experience  which  would  trans 
mute  the  iron  of  life  to  gold,  and  reconcile  him  to  its  more 
static  aspects,  once  for  all ;  but  it  did  not  by  any  means  include 
the  idea  of  marriage.  The  impersonal  streak  in  him  —  violated 
by  the  demands  of  a  clinging,  fragile  wife  —  reasserted  itself, 
these  days,  with  the  added  force  of  reaction.  Happily  there 
still  remained  his  catholic  capacity  for  friendship;  and  in  the 
four  women  at  Wynchcombe  Friars  he  had  promising  material 
to  hand. 

With  Sheila  he  had  soon  established  a  real  and  satisfying 
brotherly  intimacy.  Sister  Barton  and  Miss  Lenox  were  men's 
women  in  the  best  sense;  and  Miss  de  Vigne  was  certainly  not 
the  least  attractive  of  the  four.  As  Jack's  sister  and  Van's 
possible  wife,  he  felt  keen  to  know  more  of  her.  But  her  work 


HANDMAID   OF  THE   GODS  323 

involved  less  personal  contact  with  the  men;  and,  except  when 
Derek  spent  an  evening  with  the  family,  opportunities  for 
friendly  talk  were  few  and  brief. 

Sometimes  they  would  stroll  on  the  terrace,  when  the  more 
stalwart  of  her  charges  were  scattered  about  helping  Mark's 
two  ancient  gardeners.  And  it  was  on  one  of  these  occasions 
that  she  first  alluded  to  Jack. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "I  have  actually  talked  to  three 
of  the  men  who  were  with  him  —  at  the  time.  And  it  was 
good  to  hear  how  they  spoke  of  him.  One  of  them  —  about 
his  own  age  —  said  fervently,  'Better  the  whole  dozen  of  us 
than  him';  and  though  one  couldn't  very  well  agree  —  one 
loved  him  for  it." 

Derek  nodded,  looking  away  into  the  distance. 

"  Good  fellow  —  I'd  like  to  meet  him." 

"He's  gone,  too,"  she  said  softly.  "He  died  of  wounds  in 
January.  And  he  sent  me  a  message.  '  Cheero,  Miss  de  Vigne. 
I'm  in  luck.  I  shall  see  the  Captain  and  tell  him  you  got  his 
V.C.'" 

"'In  the  faith  of  little  children'  ..."  quoted  Derek,  from 
one  of  the  few  poems  he  knew  by  heart.  He  could  not  trust 
himself  to  strike  a  more  personal  note.  "It  has  amazed  me 
and  —  shamed  me  over  and  over  again." 

"Yes,  it's  magnificent!  Such  rough  fellows  —  but  scratch 
the  surface  and  you  come  upon  the  child.  It  is  that  makes  us 
love  them  so.  It  seems  to  me  —  the  true  Christianity  has 
spiling  into  life  again  out  there,  in  spite  of  the  horrors  —  per 
haps  because  of  them.  Not  Church  Christianity;  but  simply  — 
'the  faith  of  little  children';  the  spirit  of  service  and  sacrifice 
and  brotherly  kindness — " 

Derek  nodded  again.  "It's  there  right  enough  —  under  the 
mud  and  blood  and  profanity.  Half  the  fellows  aren't  aware 
of  it.  And  they're  none  the  worse  for  that!  They  just  do 
things  that  it  wouldn't  strike  them  to  do  over  here  —  to  the 
accompaniment  of  language  that  would  make  the  average 
curate's  hair  curl !  Yet  I  reckon  some  of  them  could  give  him 
points  both  as  to  faith  and  works." 


324  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

She  smiled.  "The  great  question  is  —  will  the  Church  rise 
to  their  simple  faith  or  try  and  put  the  lid  on  them,  when  they 
get  back?" 

"She'll  have  to  reckon  with  them  anyway,"  Derek  said 
gravely.  "They've  done  more  than  pray  and  preach.  They've 
resisted  unto  blood.  What  matter  if  they  are  a  bit  foggy  about 
doctrines  and  bored  with  sermons?"  A  pause.  "Jacko  was 
one  of  that  kind,  wasn't  he?  " 

"Yes,  indeed— " 

Her  low  voice  had  a  tremor  in  it;  and  this  time  Derek  ven 
tured  his  question. 

"Have  you  really  got  his  V.C.?    I  never  knew." 

She  unfastened  a  hook  and  pulled  at  a  fine  chain  that  Derek 
had  noticed  above  her  apron. 

At  the  end  of  it  was  the  little  bronze  cross  "For  Valour," 
and  she  dropped  it  into  Derek's  open  palm.  He  let  it  rest 
there  a  moment  without  speaking. 

"It  would  have  pleased  him  so,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Perhaps  it  pleases  him  a  little  now.  Perhaps  he  didn't 
need  young  Hawkins  to  tell  him  that  I  wear  it  always."  And 
lifting  it  by  the  chain  she  slipped  it  back  into  its  place.  "Dad 
sent  it  straight  to  me.  He  said  next  to  Mother,  I  had  the  best 
right.  Jacko  was  the  image  of  her;  and  we  both  adored  her. 
That's  what  made  the  special  link  between  us.  Did  you  see 
him  after  you  came  home?  " 

"Just  a  glimpse  in  Town.    His  last  leave." 

Then  encouraged  by  her  friendliness  and  her  rare  mood  of 
unreserve,  he  added:  "My  best  memory  of  him  will  always  be 
those  three  days  on  the  Island.  I've  never  been  able  to  thank 
you  for  them  —  but  I've  always  remembered  I  owed  them  to 
you  — 

Her  serious  face  lit  up.  "I  am  glad  they  meant  so  much 
to  you.  He  simply  loved  them.  I'm  afraid  my  zeal  on  that 
occasion  was  not  altogether  for  your  poor  little  wife." 

"Well,  anyway,  you  were  so  thundering  good  to  her  that 
she  never  forgot  you  —  to  the  last." 

"Dear  little  soul!    I  didn't  know  I'd  made  such  an  im- 


HANDMAID   OF  THE   GODS  325 

pression.     But  afterwards  —  when  I  heard  ...  I  felt  so  sorry 
I  hadn't  written." 

And  Derek  could  not  tell  her  that  had  she  done  so,  he  might 
not  have  been  standing  there  now. 

It  was  after  this  talk  with  her  that  he  first  caught  himself 
wondering  how  a  girl  of  that  quality  would  amalgamate  with 
Van.  But  that,  after  all,  was  Van's  affair. 

Because  she  was  a  slow  study,  she  attracted  him  the  more. 
To  hear  her  extol  the  war  spirit  of  la  belle  France,  when  the 
mood  fired  her,  was  to  catch  a  vital  spark  from  that  most  vital, 
most  incalculable  of  nations;  and  on  the  day  when  she  discovered 
the  depth  of  his  admiration  for  her  father's  country  a  very  real 
link  was  established  between  them.  Pure  Saxon  in  her  poise  and 
dignity,  Latin,  in  her  delicate  reserves  and  the  light  alertness 
of  spirit  that  gleamed  through,  the  race  elements  were  so  finely 
balanced  in  her  that  one  could  not  always  tell,  at  a  given 
moment,  which  would  prevail;  and  the  piquancy  of  uncertainty 
enhanced  her  charm.  Even  in  seriousness,  her  eyes  had  a  soft 
radiance,  as  if  some  inner  light  shone  through.  He  said  to 
himself  "She  is  a  'lantern-bearer'":  and  he  was  right.  Each 
friendly  talk  they  achieved,  however  brief,  illuminated  some 
fresh  facet  of  her  unobtrusively  individual  personality. 

Her  interest,  at  this  time,  was  chiefly  focussed  on  the  coming 
concert :  and  it  was  one  evening  in  the  drawing-room  —  after  a 
committee  on  the  programme  —  that  he  struck  a  spark  from 
her  which  took  him  completely 'by  surprise. 

It  arose  out  of  a  letter  from  Van,  asking  if  he  might  bring 
Karl  along  on  the  3oth.  They  would  both  be  going  down  that 
day  and  Karl  seemed  rather  keen.  Would  Derek  be  a  good 
chap  and  square  it  with  Forsyth?  He  might  add,  by  way  of 
inducement,  that  Karl  could  'tootle  a  bit  on  the  fiddle.'  It 
was  a  secret  vice;  but  if  polite  pressure  were  applied  he  might 
be  persuaded  to  oblige. 

After  dinner,  when  the  ladies  had  left  them,  Derek  put  for 
ward  Van's  request:  and  it  lit  a  wicked  gleam  in  Mark's  eye. 

"He's  a  pretty  cool  customer!  —  Springing  an  extra  man  on 


326  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

us  at  the  eleventh  hour;  and  one  of  his  beastly  Schonbergs  into 
the  bargain." 

"Karl  isn't  beastly,"  Derek  retorted  with  a  touch  of  heat. 
"He's  a  thorough  good  chap.  And  his  sentiments  are  as  sound 
as  my  own." 

"Pity  he  was  so  regrettably  careless  in  his  choice  of  a  father! 
Anyway,  one's  bound  to  say  'Yes. ": 

"Not  if  you  mean  'No.'" 

There  was  a  perceptible  stiffening  in  Derek's  tone;  and 
Mark  gave  his  shoulder  a  friendly  shake.  "All  serene,  old 
man.  I  never  can  resist  getting  a  rise  out  of  you  over  your 
precious  Van!  We'll  swallow  his  Schonberg  this  time;  and 
you  can  tell  him  two  items  on  the  fiddle  is  the  price  of  his  bed! 
Now  for  the  Committee." 

It  was  drawn  up,  informally,  in  the  square  bay  window  that 
looked  out  upon  the  terrace  and  the  pines,  and  caught  the  last 
of  the  sun.  Only  Sister  Barton  and  Honor  wore  uniform.  The 
other  two  had  taken  an  evening  off.  Miss  de  Vigne  occupied 
her  favourite  corner  on  the  cushioned  window-seat,  whence  one 
had  a  glimpse  of  blue  distances  beyond.  She  wore  a  smoke- 
coloured  gown,  very  straight  and  simple,  with  filmy  sleeves; 
her  only  ornament  a  medallion  set  with  diamonds.  Its  ob 
verse,  Derek  now  knew,  was  a  lifelike  miniature  of  Jack. 
The  other  three  were  knitting.  She  had  an  open  book  on  her 
lap.  He  had  discovered,  at  Silversands,  that  she  was  a  genuine 
reader. 

While  Mark  lowered  himself  into  his  big  chair,  Derek  sat 
down  in  the  window  opposite  her. 

"What's  the  special  subject?"  he  asked,  in  response  to  her 
welcoming  smile. 

She  held  up  the  book  to  him  and  he  read:  "Psychologic  des 
F aides.  Gustave  Le  Bon." 

"Rather  stiff  stuff,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes.  But  fascinating.  Don't  give  me  away,"  she  added 
in  a  lower  tone  —  "I  was  devouring  it  till  one  o'clock  this 
morning." 

"And  up  at  seven!    That  won't  do." 


HANDMAID   OF  THE   GODS  327 

"It's  my  only  chance,"  she  pleaded.  "And  as  I  don't  suffer 
Us  j "aides  gladly,  it's  up  to  me  to  try  and  temper  my  'prejudice' 
with  knowledge!" 

Derek  affected  exaggerated  surprise.  "You  —  indulging  in 
slang!" 

"Is  it  not  permitted — ever?  I  rather  love  that  one.  And 
I  quite  miss  some  of  your  Canadian  gems." 

Just  then  Mark  announced  that  Van  had  asked  leave  to  bring 
Karl  Schonberg,  his  assistant  Agent.  "Derek  goes  bail  he 
won't  pinch  the  silver  and  is  plus  royaliste  que  le  roi.  No 
objections,  I  hope?" 

"My  dear  —  of  course  not,"  from  Sheila.  But  Derek,  who 
was  watching  Miss  de  Vigne,  saw  the  breeze  of  some  strong 
emotion  pass  over  her  face.  The  minute  gold  flecks  in  her  eyes 
became  sparks  of  fire.  Her  brows  went  up;  her  lips  parted. 
The  next  moment  they  were  deliberately  compressed;  and  turn 
ing  her  head  away,  she  sat  quietly  watching  the  enchantment 
of  the  pinewood  penetrated  by  the  last  rays  of  the  sun. 

No  one  seemed  to  have  noticed  anything;  but  Derek  suddenly 
remembered  that  he  had  seen  those  sparks  in  her  eyes  at  Silver- 
sands;  and  he  was  thinking:  "If  she  dislikes  Karl  as  much  as 
that,  it's  an  awkward  lookout  for  Van." 

He  decided  to  take  courage  and  broach  the  subject,  if  chance 
favoured  him. 

The  programme  settled,  Sister  Barton  and  Honor  went  off  to 
the  wards.  Sheila  retired  with  Mark  to  the  grand  piano  at  the 
end  of  the  room;  and  Derek  remained  sitting  in  the  window 
with  Gabrielle  de  Vigne. 

In  response  to  her  half-smile,  he  said  impulsively:  "Miss 
de  Vigne,  I  couldn't  help  noticing  —  I  hope  you're  not  very 
much  annoyed  — " 

"But  I  am  —  horribly  annoyed.  I  am  very  angry  —  with 
your  brother,"  she  flashed  out,  to  his  complete  astonishment. 
Two  spots  of  colour  glowed  in  her  cheeks  and  the  sparks  were 
alight  again  in  her  eyes.  "It  is  a  failure  in  tact  —  unlike 
him  —  bringing  his  German  friends  here.  To  me  the  very 
word  Schonberg  is  a  red  rag.  I  told  you  —  long  ago  — " 


328  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Yes.  I  remember  very  well.  It  led  to  Jacko  speaking  out 
for  the  first  time." 

"It  led  —  he  led  to  the  break  between  Jacko  and  Dad.  You 
can't  know  —  as  I  do  —  how  it  hurt  them  both.  And  he  cared 
no  more  than  if  he  had  squashed  a  mosquito  that  was  worrying 
him.  You  think  me  a  vengeful  Latin?  But  no!  I  can't  for 
give  that  detestable  man,  nor  think  decently  of  his  family. 
Mon  Dieu,  non!" 

The  last  was  a  fierce  whisper;  and  the  whole  was  spoken  with 
such  passionate  vehemence  that  Derek  was  taken  aback; 
though  he  liked  her  none  the  less  for  that  spontaneous  self- 
revealing. 

"But  poor  old  Karl  is  only  half  Schonberg,"  he  urged,  with 
Van  at  the  back  of  his  mind. 

"Half  too  much  for  my  taste.  I  used  to  see,  too  often,  a 
look  of  that  man  in  his  curious  eyes.  And  that  thickness  of  the 
nose—  Her  shiver  of  distaste  was  genuine.  "I  believe  he 
is  better  than  the  others.  But  if  you'd  had  to  put  up  wTith 
them  and  their  friends  for  more  than  twenty  years  —  perhaps 
you  would  understand  — " 

She  wras  herself  again  now,  collected  and  cool. 

"I  do  understand,"  said  Derek,  returning  her  smile.  "I 
rather  misjudged  him  myself.  And  I  feel  the  connection  comes 
hard  on  him.  He's  very  much  his  mother's  son,  and  he's  had  a 
thorough-going  English  education." 

"Yet  he  still  has  the  hateful  German  mentality  that  plans 
and  calculates  and  never  shows  its  hand.  That  is  their  wray  of 
reserve.  The  Englishman  hides  his  feelings  —  the  German 
hides  his  intentions  — " 

"Yes.  Ours  is  a  matter  of  character,  the  training  in  self- 
control  that  we  get  at  our  despised  Public  Schools  and  Univer 
sities.  Theirs  is  chiefly  mental  — 

"But  altogether  mental!"  The  inner  fire  was  flaring  up 
again.  "They  wallow  in  their  emotions.  .They  conceal  their 
thoughts.  They  are  always  working  deliberately  for  some  hid 
den  purpose.  Ruthlessly  they  discard  the  superfluous ;  and  they 
hardly  ever  give  themselves  away  —  as  Englishmen  so  often  do, 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  329 

out  of  sheer  honesty.  It  is  a  part  of  their  devilish  efficiency 
and  half  the  secret  of  their  success.  True?  " 

Derek  sighed  —  was  she  thinking  of  John  Burlton  and  of 
Van—? 

"Bitterly  true.  In  the  way  of  guile,  we  are  like  children 
in  their  hands.  The  trouble  is  —  shall  we  ever  be  otherwise?" 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  gazing  into  the  glory  of  the  sun 
set  with  dreamy,  troubled  eyes.  Then  she  said,  very  low:  "Ah 
—  how  one  is  shaken  by  that  fear  wrhen  one's  mind  staggers 
under  each  fresh,  hideous  revealing.  Over  here  they  don't  al 
together  realize  —  how  should  they?  But  when  one  has  been 
so  long  in  France  —  tortured,  heroic  France  — " 

Her  hand  closed  sharply  on  the  window  ledge;  and  the  si 
lence  that  fell  between  them  was  charged  with  understanding. 

Presently  she  looked  round  and  said  in  her  lighter  manner: 
"Now  perhaps  you  see  why  I  was  angry?  I  have  no  use 
for  them  —  halves  or  wholes  —  however  innocuous  they  may 
appear." 

But  Derek's  keen  sense  of  justice  could  not  leave  it  at  that. 
"Miss  de  Vigne,  I  give  you  my  word  Karl  is  thoroughly  anti- 
German.  He's  in  a  hard  position,  poor  chap.  Is  it  kind  to 
make  things  harder  for  him?  We  had  a  straight  talk  about  it 
all  soon  after  I  came  home." 

By  way  of  proof  he  gave  her  the  gist  of  it,  punctuated  with 
vigorous  comment;  but  he  could  feel,  all  the  while,  that  he  was 
making  small  impression  upon  her  steel-clad  antagonism. 

"  Do  you  suggest  that  Karl  was  lying?  "  he  demanded  at  last 
with  a  challenging  look. 

Her  shrug  had  the  true  French  quality.  "I  suggest  nothing 
so  impolite!  But  I  distrust  them  utterly.  There  is  always 
some  under-motive — " 

"Well,  I  am  glad  I'm  not  in  his  shoes!"  Derek  broke  in,  only 
half  in  joke.  "Goodness  knows  I'm  a  hard-believing  sceptic. 
But  I  flatter  myself  I  know  an  honest  man  when  I  meet  him. 
It's  cruel  of  you  to  shake  the  little  faith  I  possess!" 

At  that  she  shifted  her  eyes  from  the  sunset  glory,  and  the 
smile  she  gave  him  atoned  for  her  obstinacy.  "But  don't  let 


330  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

me  shake  your  faith.  I  sincerely  hope  it  is  justified  —  for 
every  one's  sake." 

"So  do  I.  And  you  might  give  Karl  a  chance  to  prove  it 
on  Friday."  He  hesitated;  then,  looking  full  at  her,  he  said: 
"You  know  —  he  is  a  great  friend  of  Van's." 

She  returned  his  look  steadily.  He  fancied  she  changed 
colour  ever  so  little. 

"And  the  father  —  unfortunately,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Mr.  Blount  is  so  clever,  so  charming,  it  seems  strange  —  he 
has  so  little  —  perception.  Of  course  I  would  never  talk  to  him 
like  this—  " 

Mark  and  Sheila  had  left  the  piano  and  were  coming  towards 
them. 

"How  about  that  last  thing,  Gay?"  he  asked.  "Not  quite 
catchy  enough?" 

This  time  her  faint  flush  was  unmistakable.  "Oh,  I'm  so 
sorry,  dear.  I'm  afraid  I  wasn't  properly  attending.  We  were 
—  rather  engrossed  — " 

Mark  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  with  an  approving  smile. 
" Great  is  the  truth  .  .  . ! "  he  said  good-humouredly.  "We  can 
inflict  it  on  you  again." 

Derek  returned  to  his  'bunk'  that  night  more  than  ever 
interested  in  the  girl  whose  acquaintance  he  should  by  rights 
have  made  years  ago  —  in  Jacko's  day  —  if  he  had  not  been 
such  a  backward  beggar  in  that  respect.  An  increasing  in 
terest  deepened  his  concern  for  Van's  prospects  of  success. 
Mark  was  right,  she  was  a  real  woman.  She  ought  to  have  the 
real  big  thing.  And  surely  she  could  be  trusted  to  evoke  it;  in 
which  case  he  would  back  her  to  cure  Van  of  Schonbergitis  and 
draw  out  the  best  in  him  —  if  any  woman  could.  He  supposed 
Van  intended  to  try  his  luck  on  Friday:  —  and  his  luck  had 
been  proverbial  from  the  day  he  was  born. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Le  cceur  a  ses  raisons,  que  la  raison  ne  connais  pas. 

PASCAL 

DEREK  would  have  been  immensely  surprised  had  he  guessed 
that  Gabrielle  de  Vigne  foresaw  the  climax  quite  as  clearly  as 
himself.  Still  more  surprised  had  he  known  that  the  whole 
matter  had  long  since  been  settled  in  her  own  mind.  Emi 
nently  French  in  her  attitude  to  marriage,  she  saw  it,  primarily, 
as  a  sane  and  sacred  partnership  with  one  supreme  end  in  view 
—  the  family,  the  race.  An  event  so  vital  and  far-reaching 
must  not  merely  happen.  It  must  to  some  extent  be  prudently 
planned:  and  Gabrielle,  having  no  mother  to  think  or  plan  for 
her,  must  needs  do  both  discreetly  for  herself. 

Since  the  chance  renewal  of  her  acquaintance  with  Evan 
Blount,  he  had  thrust  himself  upon  her  attention  with  a  tactful, 
unobtrusive  persistence  that  no  true  woman  could  pretend  to 
misunderstand.  But  it  was  not  till  he  came  to  Wynchcombe 
Friars  that  her  interest  had  been  definitely  quickened  by  his 
evident  affection  for  the  brother,  with  whom  he  seemed  to 
have  hardly  a  thought  in  common.  Also,  he  was  distinctly 
pleasing  to  look  at ;  and  he  had  brains  and  a  flicker  of  humour 
that  saved  his  complacence  from  slipping  into  mere  conceit. 
He  was  just  serenely  sure  of  himself  —  that  was  all.  It  might 
be  a  fine-drawn  distinction;  but  Gabrielle's  French  brain  de 
lighted  in  fine-drawn  distinctions  and  all  the  delicate  nuances 
of  life.  So  —  she  had  permitted  herself  to  be  interested:  and 
—  when  the  true  cause  of  his  visitations  became  unmistaka 
ble  —  she  had  gone  '  into  committee '  with  her  own  heart,  quite 
simply  and  naturally,  on  the  all-important  subject. 

From  her  un-English  point  of  view,  it  was  no  mere  matter 
of  securing  an  eligible  husband.    It  was  a  question  of  her  own 


332  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

fitness  and  willingness  to  accept  one  who  was  heir  to  great 
estates;  and  the  adequacy  of  her  own  little  fortune  as  a  con 
tribution  to  their  partnership.  Both  her  French  blood  and  a 
touch  of  her  obstinate  pride  came  in  there.  As  to  the  man 
himself  —  though  he  had  not  yet  stirred  the  deeps,  she  already 
felt  for  him  a  very  real  tenderness,  faintly  tinged,  at  times, 
with  amusement.  His  attitude  to  his  country  —  at  once  de 
tached  and  insular  —  jarred  with  her  own  imperial  outlook; 
and  the  Schonberg  obsession  must  cease,  if  he  wanted  to  make 
her  his  wife.  Her  girlhood  had  been  haunted  by  that  intrusive 
element.  It  could  not  be  allowed  to  overshadow  her  marriage. 
She  would  make  things  clear  to  him:  —  save  him  from  himself 
and  them.  She  believed  the  match  would  please  her  step 
father;  and  Jacko's  '  Dirks '  for  a  brother-in-law  would  be 
something  of  a  possession. 

If,  in  Van,  she  saw  the  potential  lover,  in  Derek,  she  saw  the 
potential  friend.  Long  ago,  at  Silversands,  she  had  recognized 
him  as  a  real  personality;  had  detected  the  hidden  intensity, 
the  queer,  still  strength  that  fitted  him  for  suffering.  And 
now,  when  she  watched  him  limping  along  beside  her  other 
charges,  in  the  ill-fitting  blue  coat,  it  hurt  her  to  remember  the 
sun-tanned,  clean-cut  man  he  was  at  Victoria,  with  the  breath 
of  Canada's  great  woods  about  him  and  the  tang  of  her  racy 
speech  on  his  lips.  He  had  lost  Jack.  He  had  lost  his  poor 
little  wife.  It  began  to  look  as  if  he  might  lose  the  best  part  of 
his  health.  From  all  accounts  he  had  no  mother  worth  men 
tioning;  and  the  latent  mother  in  her  —  divining  his  need  — 
yearned  over  him  the  more. 

It  was  her  instinctive  attitude  towards  the  whole  race  of 
man.  In  her  eyes  they  were  beings  of  a  larger  sphere;  very 
splendid,  yet,  in  some  ways,  divinely  stupid;  and  more  pathetic 
ally  dependent  on  the  loyal  co-operation  of  their  women-folk 
than  they  seemed  able  to  realize  or  willing  to  admit.  And  War, 
that  had  made  heroes  of  them,  had  made  them  also  more  than 
ever  dependent,  more  than  ever  appealing.  She  had  learnt 
from  the  great-hearted  women  of  France  to  call  the  maimed 
'les  glorieux';  and,  for  herself,  every  pottu,  every  Tommy  she 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  333 

had  tended,  in  hospitals  and  dressing -stations,  became,  for  the 
moment,  her  adopted  child.  Here,  at  Wynchcombe  Friars, 
she  had  taken  to  her  heart  the  whole  of  Mark's  varied  and 
variable  family;  and  especially  she  was  glad  when  Derek  had 
been  added  to  the  tale  of  her  adopted  sons. 

Yet  she  was  not  altogether  satisfied  about  him;  nor  could  she 
quite  make  him  out.  She  supposed  his  heart  was  buried  with 
poor,  pretty  Lois  in  British  Columbia;  and  she  would  say  he 
had  a  strictly  limited  capacity  for  falling  in  love.  A  pity  —  a 
thousand  pities  —  that  he  had  squandered  his  manhood  on  a 
passionate,  impulsive  marriage  in  which  there  could  have  been 
no  true  partnership ;  a  marriage  that,  in  her  view,  was  a  wrong 
to  his  family  and  to  the  race.  She  could  but  conclude,  reluc 
tantly,  that  the  general  conditions  and  deprivations  out  there 
had  made  him  unable  to  resist  the  lure  of  a  pretty  face.  Evi 
dently  Jacko  had  never  been  enlightened.  The  whole  deplor 
able  episode  was  a  tragic  riddle  to  which  she  could  find  no 
answer. 

But  just  at  present  —  with  the  fateful  week-end  drawing 
nearer  —  Van  entered  hi  and  took  complete  command  of  her 
thoughts.  Now  that  decision  loomed  irrevocable,  she  found 
her  woman's  perversity  prompting  her  to  ward  it  off  a  little 
longer  —  only  a  little  longer  — 

The  unreasonable  English  streak  in  her  seemed  to  be  un 
expectedly  asserting  itself  at  the  eleventh  hour;  demanding  a 
stronger  emotion,  a  deeper  thrill,  to  halo  this  greatest  event  of 
her  life.  That  was  the  worst  of  being  'twins'  instead  of  all 
of  a  piece.  Just  when  one  believed  that  Tweedledum  was 
securely  in  command  of  affairs,  one  was  liable  to  a  disconcerting 
attack  in  flank  from  Tweedledee  — ! 

It  was  on  the  very  morning  of  the  concert,  at  the  prosaic 
hour  of  7.30  A.M.,  that  these  unauthorized  sensations  most 
sharply  beset  her.  She  was  standing  before  her  mirror,  in  her 
blue  gown  adjusting  her  winged  cap  with  perfect  precision. 
That  done  she  set  her  hands  on  the  dressing-table  and  gazed 
steadily  into  her  own  eyes.  If  one  looked  long  enough,  one 
could  experience  the  most  eerie  sensations;  but  to-day  she  had 


334  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

neither  time  nor  inclination  for  such  fascinating  spiritual  ex 
cursions.  Her  mind  was  resolutely  set  on  the  matter  in  hand  — 
to  quench  that  other  Gabrielle,  who,  by  this  time  ought  to  know 
better;  to  reassert  the  supremacy  of  the  true  Gabrielle  Honore 
de  Vigne:  —  a  reincarnation,  according  to  Tante  Elise,  of  the 
famous  Gabrielle  Honore,  her  own  great-grandmother,  who  had 
shone  in  the  salons  and  carried  her  aristocratic  head  proudly 
through  the  Terror.  Since  there  was  no  elder  to  be  stern  with 
her,  she  must  be  stern  with  herself. 

"Ma  foil  Qu'as-tu  done,  Gabrielle?"  she  addressed  her  own 
image  in  her  crispest  voice.  "You  —  turned  twenty-six,  clam 
ouring  for  sentimental  thrills  like  any  green  girl!  If  Mr.  Blount 
honours  you  with  an  offer  of  marriage  —  you  will  accept  him. 
Voila  tout!" 

Apparently  the  other  Gabrielle  had  nothing  to  say  for  herself: 
not  a  leg  to  stand  on  — 

Then  she  remembered  her  men  who  must  not  be  kept  waiting 
for  their  breakfast,  though  the  heavens  fall. 

She  spent  a  strenuous  morning  with  them  in  the  weavers' 
entertainment  hall.  Mark  and  Sheila  were  in  command  of 
affairs;  and  Derek,  defying  his  limp,  instituted  himself  her 
right-hand  man.  Formal  rows  of  seats  were  relegated  to  the 
back  of  the  hall.  The  rest  was  given  over  to  a  more  scattered 
grouping  of  chairs  and  tables  and  massed  plants:  a  friendly 
setting  for  the  smoking  concert  that  the  men  considered  the 
cream  of  the  evening.  Those  of  them  who  had  a  personal  share 
in  the  programme  frankly  regarded  their  own  contribution  as  the 
pivot  of  interest;  and  advertised  the  fact  with  the  unblushing 
egotism  of  children. 

Gabrielle,  in  addition  to  her  own  items,  had  consented  to 
accompany  most  of  them.  Though  not  a  highly  skilled  mu 
sician  she  had  a  genuine  gift  for  accompaniment;  and  the  men 
had  soon  discovered  that  when  she  played  for  them  they  lost 
their  nervousness  and  sang  their  best.  In  consequence  she  had 
been  'snowed  under'  with  urgent  requests  and  had  acceded  to 
them  all.  Finally,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  Mark  was  added  to 
the  list. 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  335 

She  had  noticed  at  lunch  that  Sheila  looked  white  and  tired, 
with  violet  shadows  under  her  eyes.  A  perfectly  natural  sug 
gestion  that  she  should  go  and  lie  down  had  called  up  a  faint 
flush,  and  a  murmured:  "I'm  all  right,  dear.  Don't  worry." 

But  a  little  later  —  while  Gabrielle  was  arranging  the  draw 
ing-room  vases  —  Mark  swung  himself  hurriedly  into  the  room. 

"I  say,  old  girl  —  can  you  manage  my  songs  to-night,  as 
well  as  the  rest,  without  your  hands  dropping  off?" 

He  looked  so  unlike  himself  that  she  wanted  to  pat  him 
soothingly  and  say:  "There  —  there!"  But  she  only  smiled,, 
and  answered:  "Of  course,  I'll  be  delighted.  Only — " 

"I'm  coming  to  that.  Sheila's  a  bit  —  crocked  up,"  he  said 
in  the  same  tense  manner.  "As  a  matter  of  fact  —  she  fainted 
just  now.  I've  settled  her  on  the  sofa  in  our  room.  She  must 
go  to  bed  after  dinner  and  you  must  play  hostess  for  her  at  the 
show.  Hard  lines  —  when  she's  so  keen.  But — well —  "  His 
lips  moved  nervously,  "you  might  slip  up  and  see  her.  She'll 
explain." 

To  Gabrielle  explanations  were  superfluous.  Mark's  odd  shy 
ness  and  the  look  in  his  eyes  sufficed. 

"Oh  —  my  dear!"  she  said  on  an  indrawn  breath.  But  he 
so  plainly  shrank  from  an  intimate  word  or  look  that  she  added 
briskly,  "I'll  go  at  once";  and  sped  upstairs  with  a  song  of 
thanksgiving  in  her  heart. 

Sheila  lay  on  a  low  couch  in  the  window,  lovingly  entrenched 
with  rugs  and  pillows.  The  spring  sunshine,  streaming  through 
a  pane  behind  her,  seemed  to  set  a  halo  round  her  dark  head. 
She  was  the  nearest  thing  to  a  sister  that  Gabrielle  had  known ; 
and  her  marriage  —  from  Gay's  point  of  view  —  had  been  a 
grave,  if  splendid,  error.  Now  she  was  justified  of  her  courage 
—  her  unswerving  devotion. 

At  sight  of  Gabrielle  two  spots  of  colour  showed  in  her  cheeks. 
"Nothing  to  fuss  about,  darling.  I'm  all  right!  It's  only  — 
Mark's  been  asserting  himself  for  once  in  a  way!" 

"So  I  gathered  —  and  with  the  best  of  reasons  — " 

" Gay!  —  Has  he  told  you? " 

"But  no  —  not  a  syllable!    He  imagines  he  has  left  it  to 


336  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

you."  Then  she  knelt  down  by  the  sofa  and  gathered  Sheila 
into  her  arms.  "Oh  —  ma  mie!"  she  whispered,  holding  her 
close,  and  again,  "Ma  mie!  You  were  right  —  after  all  — 

"Of  course  I  was,"  Sheila  answered,  with  her  divine  obstinacy, 
clinging  to  Gay  and  thinking  of  Mark  —  only  of  Mark,  the  pas 
sionate  tenderness  of  his  parting  kiss  and  the  veiled  triumph  in 
ihis  eyes  — 

And  Mark  himself,  having  cautiously  negotiated  the  broad 
shallow  stairs,  had  gone  straight  to  the  studio,  to  be  alone  with 
the  Great  Certainty  that  still  dazzled  his  brain. 

These  last  weeks  he  had  scarcely  dared  to  let  himself  hope 
—  And  now — ! 

Wynchcombe  Friars  —  the  place  and  people  he  loved  —  were, 
at  least,  potentially  secure  to  his  father's  line.  A  son  —  IT 
must  be  a  son  —  would  fill  his  own  place  when  the  word  came 
for  him  to  pass  on.  The  distracting  under-sense,  that  half  his 
work  would  be  undone  by  Uncle  Everard,  need  haunt  him  no 
more  — 

And  high  above  his  own  virile  triumph  at  having  made  good 
against  heavy  odds  soared  the  supreme  fact  that  Sheila  —  never 
more  beloved  and  worshipped  than  at  this  moment  —  had  not 
lost  all  in  renouncing  all  — 

The  thought  of  her  made  him  restless  to  be  with  her  again. 
He  glanced  at  the  clock.  Too  soon.  He  must  wait  a  bit. 
Give  her  a  chance  with  Gay.  The  vision  of  Gabrielle  speeding 
upstairs  came  back  to  him  and  he  thought:  "There  went  a  born 
mother.  She  must  have  known.  Hope  to  God  she  doesn't 
seriously  contemplate  squandering  herself  on  the  immaculate 
Trevanyon  Blount!" 


CHAPTER  V 

I  seek  no  further,  it  is  she  I 

Such  worth  as  this  is, 
Shall  fix  my  flying  wishes 
And  determine  them  to  kisses. 

RICHARD  CRASHAW 

VAN  arrived  at  Wynchcombe  Friars  that  evening,  in  the  best  of 
spirits.  He  had  thoroughly  enjoyed  his  run  through  Surrey  and 
Hampshire;  the  air  crisp  and  clear  after  a  morning  of  storm; 
and  Karl  in  a  friendly  humorous  mood. 

"By  the  way,"  Van  had  remarked  suddenly,  as  the  gates 
came  into  view,  "I  suppose  you  must  have  known  Miss  de 
Vigne  pretty  well  in  the  old  days?" 

Karl  nodded.  "At  one  time  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  her  —  and 
Jack.  But  I  haven't  seen  her  for  about  four  years." 

"She's  come  on  a  lot  since  then." 

"One  saw  that  she  would." 

"You're  a  'cute  observer,  Karl,  as  well  as  a  sentimentalist!" 
quoth  Van  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  his  friend.  He  himself 
had  seen  nothing  of  the  sort. 

Karl  accepted  the  compliment  with  a  half -smile  —  and  said 
no  more.  He  had  fallen  silent  as  the  drive  drew  to  an  end: 
and  Van  had  no  lack  of  interesting  food  for  reflection. 

It  would  be  too  much  to  say  that  he  definitely  intended  to 
try  his  luck;  but  he  had  a  distinct  under-sense  that  the  merest 
tilt  might  precipitate  the  crisis:  and,  on  arrival,  he  entered 
the  drawing-room  with  a  disturbing  thrill  of  expectancy  in  the 
region  of  his  heart. 

The  room  wras  full  of  strangers;  chiefly  Mrs.  Macnair's 
talented  friends.  No  sign  of  Miss  de  Vigne;  only  Mark  and 
Sheila,  'doing  the  dutiful/  to  these  confounded  musical  and 


338  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

dramatic  lights,  who  were  neither  young  nor  smart,  nor  con 
spicuously  personable.  The  sole  exception  was  a  girl  in  a 
flame-coloured  gown  and  a  necklace  of  scarabs;  thin,  eager, 
intense,  with  eyes  like  saucers;  the  kind  of  girl  Van  would  go 
miles  out  of  his  way  to  avoid.  Mark  introduced  her  as  a  rising 
violinist;  but  Van  soon  passed  on,  leaving  Karl  to  make  what 
he  could  of  her  intensities. 

Perplexity  simmered  in  him;  and  his  thrill  subsided  into  a 
very  unromantic  fit  of  annoyance.  As  they  filed  into  the  dining- 
room,  he  had  a  passing  impulse  to  ask  outright  what  had  be 
come  of  her.  But  he  thought:  "Better  wait  a  bit.  Might 
look  too  pointed."  And  before  the  soup  plates  were  removed, 
Sheila  volunteered  the  information  that  the  others  had  gone 
down  to  the  Hall  and  were  having  a  scratch  supper  on  the 
spot. 

"Gay  is  tremendously  keen,"  she  added.  "And  Derek  has 
been  helping  her  valiantly.  We're  all  so  devoted  to  him.  It's 
lovely  having  him  here." 

And  Van  thought:  "Hang  it  all,  I  know  well  enough  what  a 
first-rate  chap  Dirks  is." 

He  also  knew  there  were  ungenerous  moments  when  he  re 
sented  Miss  de  Vigne's  trick  of  quoting  his  brother's  opinion; 
her  implied  reliance  on  his  judgment,  especially  in  matters  con 
nected  with  the  War.  Certainly  it  began  to  look  as  if  there 
was  bigger  stuff  in  old  Dirks  than  any  of  them  had  ever  given 
him  credit  for.  No  harm  if  he  made  friends  with  her  —  so 
long  as  it  went  no  farther.  Never  do  for  the  poor  chap  to  get 
let  in  — 

Probably  they  were  having  no  end  of  mild  fun  at  their  'scratch 
supper';  and  here  was  he  —  bored  stiff  with  Mrs.  Macnair's 
immaculate  collection  of  art  treasures!  He  always  felt  out  of 
it  with  a  musical  crowd.  And  there  was  Karl  exceeding  the 
speed  limit  with  the  flame-coloured  atrocity.  A  dam-sight  live 
lier,  than  he  had  been  in  the  car.  Queer,  unaccountable  beggar, 
Karl. 

As  for  Miss  de  Vigne  —  what  the  devil  was  he  to  infer  from 
her  unexpected  move?  She  could  not  pretend  to  be  unaware 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  339 

that  he  had  let  himself  in  for  a  rather  boring  entertainment 
entirely  on  her  account.  It  was  jolly  unfair  on  a  man  and 
not  her  style.  But  underneath  his  surface  annoyance,  he  felt 
keener  than  ever  for  a  sight  of  her  — 

It  was  nearly  eight  when  Mark  and  his  party  entered  the 
concert  hall,  that  was  rapidly  filling  up.  Van  —  looking  out 
for  the  familiar  figure  in  wedgwood  blue  and  winged  cap  — • 
experienced  the  surprise  of  his  life  at  sight  of  an  altogether  new 
Gabrielle  de  Vigne,  transformed  from  a  mere  war-worker  into 
a  lovely  and  distinguished-looking  woman  of  his  own  world. 
Her  simple  semi-evening  dress  was  a  sheer  delight  to  his  fas 
tidious  eye.  Some  sort  of  filmy  grey  stuff  it  was,  that  showed 
silver  lights  when  she  moved:  two  rows  of  soft  grey  fur  round 
the  hem;  a  wide  black  sash  shot  with  silver;  and  wood  violets 
at  her  breast.  A  bar  of  diamonds  held  them  in  place;  and  her 
only  other  ornament  was  a  single  row  of  pearls  perfectly 
graduated  and  matched.  All  this  he  saw  and  relished,  while 
she  greeted  the  '  art  treasures '  with  her  inimitable  ease. 

When  his  turn  came,  he  held  her  hand  closely  and  said  in  a 
low  tone:  "You  took  my  breath  away.  Why  weren't  you  up 
there?" 

"Bad  of  me?"  she  queried  lightly;  "I'm  afraid  I  shirked  the 
celebrities  —  and  they  wanted  me  down  here.  I  hoped  you'd 
understand  —  and  forgive!" 

"Easier  to  do  the  first  than  the  last."    For  a  moment  his 
'  eyes  lingered  in  hers,  then  dropped  to  the  flowers  at  her  breast. 
"Dirks?"  he  asked  boldly. 

"No.     Robin  —  my  shell-shock  boy.     He  picked  every  one." 

And  Van  felt  perceptibly  relieved.  "Why  didn't  you  let  on? 
I'd  have  brought  you  lilies." 

"Too  kind!  But  the  unforgiven  would  be  undeserving. 
And  I  love  the  wild  things  best." 

"Unrepentant  —  anyway!"  murmured  Van,  with  one  of  his 
looks;  and  became  aware  of  Karl  at  his  elbow.  "Is  an  intro 
duction  necessary?"  he  asked.  "Karl,  here,  says  he  used  to 
know  you  'when  all  the  world  was  young'  —  what?" 


340  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"  Yes  —  years  ago,"  she  said  with  a  perceptible  stiffening  of 
manner.  "We've  most  of  us  travelled  a  long  way  since  then." 

Karl  —  who  was  gazing  at  her  with  all  his  eyes  —  stood 
inumchance  and  barely  touched  her  hand. 

"Hul-/o/"  mused  Van,  frankly  dismayed.  "If  she's  anti- 
Schonberg,  it  may  mean  rocks  ahead." 

And,  as  Gabrielle  turned  to  greet  a  newcomer,  he  drew  his 
friend  on  to  where  Derek  and  Cummins  stood,  a  little  apart  — 
very  conspicuous  in  their  ill-fitting  hospital  blue. 

"Rough  luck  on  Dirks,"  reflected  Van.  He  was  always  sym 
pathetic  when  his  own  barometer  stood  high.  "Does  his  best 
to  get  snuffed  out  in  his  country's  service,  and  by  way  of  thanks, 
they  convert  him  into  a  guy." 

His  greeting  of  Karl  left  nothing  to  be  desired:  and  Van  — 
having  launched  them  —  secured  a  seat  near  Miss  de  Vigne, 
just  as  the  stout  contralto  came  forward  to  make  her  bow. 

She  was  followed  by  the  flame-coloured  atrocity,  who  asserted 
her  artistry  by  inflicting  on  that  unoffending  crowd  an  orgy  of 
discord  as  lurid  as  her  own  gown ;  a  bewildering  welter  of  sound 
that  evoked  no  answering  stir  of  the  spirit  or  heart;  no  'linger 
ing  waves  of  sweetness  and  regret.' 

"I  call  that  a  gratuitous  assault  upon  the  nervous  system 
—  what?"  Van  murmured  to  Miss  de  Vigne,  leaning  confi 
dentially  down  to  her,  because  her  chair  was  a  little  lower  than 
his  own.  "Hard  on  the  men.  They  get  their  fill  of  unholy 
noises  over  there.  I  thought  Mrs.  Macnair  was  by  way  of 
being  sympathetic  — " 

"Not  'by  way  of,'"  Gabrielle  corrected  him.  She  was 
enchanting  when  she  smiled,  like  that,  with  her  eyes.  "Miss 
Polwheel  was  thrust  upon  her  at  the  last  moment.  The  others 
have  come  to  give  pleasure,  not  to  show  off!" 

And  so  it  proved. 

For  Van,  their  lively  alternations  of  speech  and  song  were 
mere  unregarded  accompaniments  to  his  low-toned  talk  with 
the  girl  beside  him.  For  the  first  time  he  felt  intimately  in 
touch  with  Gabrielle,  the  woman.  And  he  was  beginning  to 
realize  how  the  sedate  hospital  uniform  had  coloured  his  whole 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  341 

idea  of  her;  how  discreetly  it  minimized  her  physical  graces 
and  threw  into  high  relief  the  qualities  essential  for  her  work. 

Now  behold  a  transformation!  And  his  almost  feminine  eye 
for  detail  missed  no  item  of  this  fuller  revealing  of  her  charms. 
Faultless,  the  line  of  her  neck  from  ear  to  shoulder,  the  curve  of 
her  breasts,  the  gleam  of  shapely  arms  through  her  long  trans 
parent  sleeves. 

And  her  hair!  Free  of  that  puritanical  cap,  it  swept  back 
from  her  forehead,  duskily  soft,  like  a  cloud.  It  had  smoke- 
blue  shadows  and  coppery  gleams  where  it  caught  the  light. 
From  her  parting  —  a  little  to  one  side  —  the  clear  sweep  of  it 
was  broken  by  one  long  graceful  wave  that  ran  slantwise  over 
the  crown  of  her  head.  "Nature  —  or  the  latest  thing  in 
patents?"  he  wondered,  Van-like;  and,  after  due  inspection, 
voted  for  Nature. 

Seated  a  little  above  her,  he  could  let  his  eyes  take  their  fill 
of  her,  while  she  remained  intent  on  her  precious  entertain 
ment  —  divinely  unaware.  More  than  once  his  attention  re 
verted  to  her  remarkable  pearls  that  gleamed  like  drops  of 
moonlight  on  the  brunette  tint  of  her  skin.  Who  was  the 
lucky  devil  privileged  to  give  her  pearls  like  that?  A  sudden 
possessive  thrill  of  jealousy  stirred  in  his  veins. 

During  the  pauses,  they  achieved  snatches  of  intimate  talk; 
and  he  ventured  on  more  than  one  direct  compliment,  exulting 
in  his  powrer  to  call  the  blood  into  her  cheeks. 

To-night  he  was  pre-eminently  his  social  self;  ready  with  the 
flatteries  and  small  change  of  his  own  world.  He  forgot  to 
play  up  to  her  points  of  view;  forgot,  almost,  that  she  had 
points  of  view.  And  at  the  back  of  his  brain  lurked  a  vague, 
disturbing  sense  that  he  was  being  swept  towards  the  Inevitable 
faster  than  he  intended ;  losing  his  hold  on  the  reins  — 

He  looked  forward  keenly,  if  a  little  apprehensively,  to  the 
informal  half  of  the  evening. 

It  began  when  the  last  of  the  Londoners  had  contributed  his 
mite;  when  they  had  all  been  refreshed  at  the  buffet  and  sped 
on  their  way  with  thanks  and  cheers.  'Locals,'  who  had  no 


342  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

taste  for  amateur  music,  flavoured  with  woodbines,  departed 
also;  and  the  men  —  having  enjoyed  themselves  well  enough  in 
other  people's  way  —  now  prepared  to  do  so  in  their  own. 

Van,  reverting  hopefully  to  'the  Forsyth  box,'  found  Gay 
preparing  to  ascend  the  platform. 

He  looked  whimsically  aggrieved.  "What  are  you  running 
off  for  ?  I  thought  you  wrere  only  on  once  — 

"Yes  —  officially.  But  I'm  booked  for  nearly  all  the  accom 
paniments  as  well!" 

"Confound  their  cheek!  The  notion  was  —  you  were  to 
accompany  me.  What  else  did  I  scoot  down  all  this  way  for  ?  " 

"And  what  else  have  I  been  doing  for  the  last  hour?" 

"Come  along,  Gay,"  Mark  called  to -her  from  the  stage. 
Unable  to  manage  the  steps,  he  had  entered  from  the  wings, 
and  was  greeted  with  a  storm  of  cheers.  When  these  subsided, 
Van  offered  Gabrielle  his  arm. 

She  drew  back,  flushing  a  little,  as  if  she  guessed  that  he 
attached  some  deeper  significance  to  the  simple  act  of  politeness. 

"But  I'm  an  independent  person.  Besides  —  the  formality's 
obsolete  — 

"It's  no  formality.  It's  a  privilege."  His  voice  dropped  a 
tone.  "  As  a  pure  act  of  graciousness  .  .  .?" 

"Oh  —  if  you  put  it  that  way  — !" 

With  a  suspicion  of  a  shrug  she  laid  her  finger-tips  on  his 
arm. 

Fresh  applause  as  he  led  her  to  the  piano,  and  returned  hold 
ing  himself  a  shade  more  erect  than  usual. 

Deserted  by  his  bright  particular  star,  he  made  straight  for 
Derek  and  Karl,  who  seemed  to  have  a  good  deal  to  say  to  each 
other.  "Since  when?"  he  wondered,  mildly  intrigued.  But 
all  he  said  was  —  "Your  funeral  next.  Are  you  quaking  in 
your  shoes?" 

Karl  set  his  lips.    He  was  looking  up  at  the  platform. 

"It  is  a  bit  of  an  ordeal." 

"Never  before — and  never  no  more?"  queried  Van.  He 
felt  incapable  of  seriousness  —  even  a  trifle  light-headed. 
"  Would  you  believe  it,  Dirks  —  I  haven't  been  favoured  witlj 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  343 

a  scrape  of  his  precious  fiddle  since  Oxford  days.    Yet  he'll 

stand  up  to  oblige  a  crowd  of  Tommies." 
Karl  frowned  and  looked  uncomfortable.     "Oh,  well  —  it's 

up  to  us  all  to  do  what  we  can  for  them.    In  my  case  —  little 
j enough." 

"You  don't  outgrow  your  modesty,  old  man!" 

"Oh,  shut  it  —  they've  begun.  What  a  rare  fine  voice  he  has." 

"  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled! 
Scots  whom  Bruce  hath  often  led!" 

The  greatest  of  all  battle-songs  rang  clear  and  commanding 
through  the  hall;  and  Mark  —  leaning  an  elbow  on  the  piano 

—  looked  more  vital  and  vigorous  than  those  who  had  hoped 
against  hope,  through  the  black  weeks  of  his  ordeal,  had  ever 
thought  to  see  him  look  again. 

Before  the  last  verse,  he  shouted:  "Back  me  up,  boys,  if  you 
know  the  words." 

And  the  response  —  the  deep,  dragging  roar  of  men  who  are 
putting  their  backs  into  it  —  swept  the  polite  section  of  the 
audience  metaphorically  off  its  feet.  For  the  space  of  three 
minutes  even  Van  was  lifted  an  inch  or  so  off  the  ground.  He 
could  see  Miss  de  Vigne's  lips  moving  and  her  eyes  shining 
away  there  at  the  piano.  He  wanted  to  extinguish  them  all 
that  he  might  catch  the  sound  of  her  voice.  And  his  detached 
self  thought,  "  Steady  on !  I'm  going  the  pace  like  any  enam 
oured  youngster. — Hullo!  Encore,  is  it?  Forsyth's  quite  a 
nut  at  the  game." 

This  time  it  was  Wallace's  virile  slumber  song:  " Son  of  Mine" 

—  man  and  boy,  couched  in  the  heather,  under  the  stars.    It 
was  an  old  favourite  of  his  mother's;  and  Mark  had  chosen  it 
on  impulse.    She  would  understand.    So  would   Gay.    But 
what  matter? 

They  did  understand  very  well. 

Gabrielle  rose  from  the  piano  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "You've 
got  back  your  voice  —  and  something  more,"  she  said;  and  her 
heart  added:  "If  only  Sheila  could  have  heard  him!  If  she 
could  see  him  now!" 


344'.  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

After  Mark  —  Karl.  He  rose,  looking  so  nervous  and  re 
luctant  that  Van  said  kindly:  "Buck  up,  old  thing!  No  profes 
sional  critics  here.  Give  us  a  fandango." 

Karl  smiled  feebly  and  shook  his  head.  Near  the  foot  of  the 
steps  he  met  Gabrielle. 

"Can  I  be  any  use?"  she  asked  politely. 

"Thanks  very  much.  I  needn't  trouble  you,"  he  said  with  a 
touch  of  stiffness. 

"  May  I  know  what  it's  going  to  be  ?  " 

"Nothing  elaborate.    Just  a  serenade." 

"Gounod?" 

"No.  It's  by  an  unknown  man."  He  looked  away  from  her, 
adding  in  a  less  formal  tone:  "It's  called  'Serenade  at  a  Villa' 
—  an  interpretation  of  Browning's  poem.  Do  you  know  it?" 

At  that  her  politeness  thawed  a  little.  "But  yes.  I  know 
my  Browning  inside  out  and  upside  down!  Thank  you  for 
telling  me.  Now  I  can  follow  the  idea." 

Van  rose  at  her  approach.  She  was  constrained  to  take 
Karl's  vacant  chair  between  the  brothers;  and  Van  opined  that 
it  might  be  diplomatic  to  put  in  a  word  for  his  friend. 

"I'm  glad  you  spoke  to  old  Karl,"  he  said.  "He's  a  giddy 
debutant.  Deadly  nervous." 

"I  saw  that.     Does  he  play  well ?" 

"He  used  to  tootle  at  Oxford.  He's  dead  nuts  on  music. 
A  kind  of  religion  with  him  — 

"Hush!"  she  commanded  softly,  "let  him  speak  for  himself." 

From  a  prelude  of  low,  shuddering  notes,  like  the  rumble  of 
distant  thunder,  there  emerged  —  clear  and  tender  —  the  open 
ing  bars  of  the  serenade:  a  lilting,  haunting  air  that  caught  at 
the  heart  because  it  sprang  from  the  heart:  low-toned  at  first, 
but  swelling  to  a  climax  of  impassioned  yearning  that  broke 
upon  the  last  note,  almost  as  a  voice  breaks  on  the  final  word 
of  an  appeal  foredoomed  to  fail  — 

Followed  a  weird  scurrying  interlude,  like  wind  among  leaves: 
and  again,  faintly  crescendo,  those  shuddering  notes  as  of  dis 
tant  storm. 

Gabrielle  saw  it  all,  felt  it  all,  as  in  a  waking  dream  —  the 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  345 

sultry  summer  night,  heavy  with  cloud,  'when  there  rose  no 
moon  at  all.  .  .  .  Not  a  twinkle  from  the  fly;  Not  a  glimmer 
from  the  worm.'  The  darkened  house,  'its  windows  fast  and 
obdurate.'  And  down  there  in  the  garden  —  a  shadow  among 
shadows  —  the  serenader,  keeping  his  lonely  tryst,  pouring  out 
his  heart  to  the  invisible  She  .  .  . 

'My  love,  my  one,  my  all!' 

Gabrielle  scarcely  knew  whether  voice  or  violin  sang  the 
words  in  her  brain,  as  the  haunting  melody  renewed  its  plead 
ing,  more  insistent,  more  passionate  than  before.  .  .  . 

In  some  queer  way  she  seemed  linked  with  it  all.  The  pas 
sion  and  the  pleading  broke  in  waves  of  melody  against  the 
door  of  her  own  closed  heart.  And  the  form  in  the  garden  — ? 
A  symbol  merely  —  perhaps  a  portent  —  of  the  Grand  Im 
pulsion  which  so  far  had  neither  stirred  the  blood  in  her  veins 
nor  shaken  the  poise  of  her  spirit.  As  yet,  she  was  mistress  in 
her  own  house;  but  something  warned  her  she  would  not  long 
remain  so,  if  she  listened  to  much  more  of  that  music.  What 
did  it  want  of  her?  Why  would  it  not  let  her  be? 

Again  and  again  the  melody  returned,  with  a  Beethoven-like 
insistence  and  simplicity  unashamed;  rising  like  a  fountain  out 
of  stormy  minor  interludes;  luring  her,  irresistibly,  toward  what 
—  toward  whom  — ? 

Only  once  she  looked  directly  at  Karl.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
on  her;  and  a  sudden  conviction  tingled  through  her  that  he 
was  playing  to  no  one  present  but  herself.  The  discovery 
startled  her  out  of  her  dream.  She  was  back  in  the  concert 
hall  among  the  flags  and  the  plants  and  the  increasing  aroma  of 
woodbines  — 

Instinctively  she  looked  round  and  caught  Van's  eyes  also 
intent  upon  her  face. 

"What  happened  to  you?"  he  asked,  under  his  breath.  "I 
spoke  twice.  —  You  never  even  heard  me." 

The  blood  ran  up  into  her  cheeks.  "When  people  are  play 
ing,  I  listen  to  them,"  she  said;  and  looked  up  again,  with  an 
altogether  new  interest,  at  the  man  who  was  the  son  of  Jacko's 
enemy  and  Evan  Blount's  friend. 


346  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

So  strangely  had  his  music  softened  her,  that  she  suffered  a 
twinge  of  self-reproach  at  thought  of  her  ungracious  greeting. 
If,  as  Derek  said,  he  really  hated  the  German  connection,  he 
might  be  sensitive  about  it.  She  remembered  how  he  had 
tentatively  tried  to  be  friends  with  herself  and  Jack,  and  how 
they  had  snubbed  his  advances  in  their  young,  adamantine  way. 
With  Jacko  enthroned  in  her  heart,  it  was  hard  not  to  detest 
the  very  name  of  Schonberg.  But  Derek  said  he  was  straight; 
and  certainly  his  music  was  wonderful.  She  would  tell  him  so 
afterwards  —  try  and  atone. 

It  was  nearing  an  end  now.  The  air  returning  in  a  minor 
key  grew  fainter  and  fainter.  Not  a  man  stirred  in  the  hall. 
From  softness  to  softness  the  melody  moved:  piano,  pianissimo: 
a  queer,  breaking  sound  like  a  snapped  lutestring:  and  again 
that  low  shuddering  note  —  a  mere  aftermath  of  storm.  .  .  . 

For  at  least  two  minutes  the  impressive  silence  held  .  .  . 

Then,  as  Karl  reverently  laid  the  \iolin  to  rest,  the  clapping 
began  in  earnest,  and  vociferous  shouts  of  'Encore!'  Plainly 
overwhelmed,  he  smiled  and  bowed,  rather  stiffly,  and  de 
scended  the  steps,  in  spite  of  wholesale  remonstrance  from  the 
men. 

Mrs.  Macnair,  in  her  impulsive  fashion,  went  forward  and 
shook  hands  with  him  heartily.  Mark  was  not  far  behind  her; 
and  Gabrielle,  seeing  her  chance,  followed  suit. 

Still  the  clapping  wrent  on:  and  Sergeant  Baird  came  up  to 
them.  "They're  a'  wan  tin'  that  tur-r-n  agen,  sir,"  he  said; 
and  Karl  appealed  mutely  to  Mrs.  Macnair. 

"I  couldn't  play  it  —  like  that,  again." 

"Of  course  you  couldn't,"  she  answered  feelingly.  "But  it's 
a  triumph.  You  moved  them.  A  wonderful  little  thing:  who 
wrote  it?" 

Karl  grew  redder  than  ever.  "It's  anonymous  —  unpub 
lished  —  I'm  fond  of  it.  I  wasn't  sure  if  the  men  would  care." 

"Well,  you  have  their  answer!  You  simply  must  give  them 
something  else.  Do  you  play  Dvorak's  things?" 

"Yes  —  but  I'm  not  top-hole  at  execution;  and  they  need  — 
the  piano." 


HANDMAID   OF  THE  GODS  347 

"Let  me  —  please,"  Gabrielle  interposed  with  eagerness  un 
feigned.  "I've  played  them  with  my  Uncle,  in  Canada." 

"If  you  really  —  most  kind  of  you — "  Karl  stammered, 
visibly  overcome. 

"But  I  shall  be  proud  - 

"Well  done,  Gay!"  Mark  affectionately  took  hold  of  her 
arm.  "She's  the  pillar  of  the  show.  Blount  never  let  on  you 
could  play  like  that,  Schonberg,  or  I'd  have  put  you  into  the 
first  programme." 

"I  should  have  scratched!"  Karl  answered,  recovering  his 
equanimity.  "I'm  only  an  amateur,  though  I've  had  good 
lessons  —  in  Germany." 

"And  you  have  the  spirit  of  it  in  you,"  murmured  Gabrielle, 
who  could  not  be  generous  by  halves. 

Karl  Schonberg  said  nothing,  but  his  eyes  had  the  intent  look 
that  had  arrested  her  when  he  was  playing. 

"May  I?"  he  murmured  politely,  and  offered  his  arm.  She 
could  not  very  well  demur;  and  a  mouse  of  a  thought  crept  in 
that  it  would  cancel  any  significance  that  might  have  been 
attached  to  her  earlier  surrender. 

With  her  hand  on  his  sleeve  they  went  forward  together. 
The  strangeness  of  it  struck  home  —  and  the  inconsistency! 
Two  hours  earlier,  she  would  have  scouted  the  idea;  but  in  the 
divine  discord  between  words  and  actions  she  was  very  woman. 
She  did  not  guess  that  the  two  brothers  were  watching  her,  as 
she  went,  with  characteristically  opposite  thoughts  in  their 
hearts. 

"Ready?"  Karl  asked  when  he  had  settled  her  at  the 
piano. 

She  nodded,  smiling  up  at  him;  with  an  air  of  confidence, 
that  had  not  been  there  before,  he  tucked  the  beloved  fiddle 
under  his  chin;  and  between  them  they  brought  down  the 
house. 

As  they  left  the  platform,  Karl  said  boldly  under  coyer  of 
acclamations:  "You  have  the  true  gift.  It  is  a  rare  one,  and 
too  little  recognized." 

"It  is  the  woman's  gift,  par  excellence!'1  she  answered,  evad- 


348  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

ing  the  personal  note.  "But  women  are  not  content  to  ac 
company  these  days." 

"That  means  they  are  not  content  —  to  inspire.  And  if 
ever  they  give  up  that  —  God  help  the  world ! " 

They  were  back  among  the  others  now  —  and  congratulations 
rained. 

Derek  had  slipped  into  Gabrielle's  vacant  seat;  and  Karl 
secured  two  chairs  for  himself  and  her,  just  near  enough  for 
Van  to  catch  scraps  of  their  talk  that  flourished  amazingly  in 
the  interludes,  while  the  men  held  the  stage :  —  Cummins  in 
his  Charlie  Chaplin  turns,  Baird,  with  his  bagpipes  and  High 
land  fling;  Barnes,  at  his  brightest  and  best  in  an  impromptu 
tub-thumping  oration  addressed  to  'them  that  are  watchin' 
tender  o'er  us,'  and  significantly  christened  'Twistin'  their 
Tails.' 

Then  it  was  Gabrielle  again;  and  Van  reasserted  himself  with 
serene  assurance. 

"My  turn,  I  think,  Miss  de  Vigne,"  he  said  leaning  towards 
her.  "Set  to  partners  —  what?  Karl,  I  depute  you  to  amuse 
Dirks.  I've  been  boring  him  stiff." 

And,  with  his  inimitable  possessive  air,  he  led  her  away. 

When  she  had  played  'How's  every  little  thing  in  Dixie?' 
for  a  lively  American  Corporal  —  'gone  British  for  the  dura 
tion  '  —  her  own  moment  arrived.  The  men  gave  her  a  rous 
ing  welcome  as  she  stepped  forward,  her  pulses  fluttering,  her 
head  held  high,  because  the  mere  gesture  of  confidence  reacts 
on  the  spirit. 

Van  noticed  that  the  violets  at  her  breast  moved  unevenly: 
and  he  thought:  "  She's  a  shade  nervous.  But,  by  Jove  —  she's 
topping!  The  poise  of  her.  A  wicked  shame  to  hide  a  throat 
like  that  in  a  cast-iron  collar." 

Then  she  began  to  speak  in  that  clear,  low-pitched  voice  of 
hers,  with  its  touch  of  crispness  that  gave  distinction  to  her 
least  remark.  "I  am  going  to  give  you  Kipling's  'France.'" 

Fresh  applause  and  shouts  of  'Vive  la  France!'  in  very 
British  accents. 

For  the  first  few  stanzas  her  voice  kept  its  level  quietness: 


HANDMAID   OF  THE   GODS  349 

then  on  a  deeper  note  of  passionate  feeling  —  altogether  new 
to  Van  —  it  carried  her  hearers,  through  the  record  of  age-long 
strife  between  equal  hearts  and  wills,  to  the  greater  glory  of 
brotherhood  in  arms,  and  the  sonorous  echo  of  the  opening 
lines: 

"Broke  to  every  known  mischance;  lifted  over  all 
By  the  light,  sane  joy  of  life  —  the  buckler  of  the  Gaul. 
Furious  in  luxury,  Merciless  in  toil, 
Terrible,  with  strength  she  draws  from  her  tireless  soil. 
Strictest  judge  of  her  own  worth,  gentlest  of  man's  mind, 
First  to  follow  truth  and  last  to  leave  old  truths  behind: 
France  —  beloved  of  every  soul  that  loves  and  serves  its  kind!" 

At  this  point  Van  became  aware  that  her  gaze  was  fixed  on 
Derek;  that  she  seemed  to  be  speaking  those  last  lines  directly 
to  him.  Half  amused,  half  annoyed,  he  glanced  sidelong  at  his 
brother;  and  discovered  that  Derek  was  looking  straight  back 
at  her  with  a  queer  uplifted  light  in  his  eyes  that  Van  —  at  all 
events  —  had  never  seen  there  before.  A  kind  of  super- 
coquette  —  was  she  ?  —  bewitching  them  all  with  a  twitch  of 
her  eloquent  eyebrows,  an  inflection  of  her  voice?  Even  old 
Karl  seemed  smitten.  "Since  when — ?"  he  queried  for  the 
second  time  that  evening. 

Increasingly  disturbed,  he  joined  in  calls  for  an  encore,  and 
this  time  she  gave  them  an  episode,  'Beloved  Vagabond':  — 
Paragot  fiddling  at  a  rustic  wedding  to  fill  the  pockets  of  the 
unsuspecting  and  entirely-on-the-ground  Blanquette  de  Veau. 
Now  she  was  more  like  herself  again.  The  lightness  and  swift 
ness,  the  French  gaiety  of  it  all,  emphasized  the  very  qualities 
Van  most  appreciated;  the  qualities  that  sharply  differentiated 
her  from  the  average  woman  of  his  own  world. 

With  a  minimum  of  gesture  and  inimitable  inflections  of  tone, 
she  set  the  whole  quaint  scene  vividly  before  their  eyes :  — 
Paragot,  in  velveteens  and  rakish  Alpine  hat,  fiddling  as  they 
went;  Narcisse  quarrelling  furiously  with  his  chiffon  bow  under 
a  flower  stall;  the  succulent  wedding  feast  and  al  fresco  dance; 
Paragot,  in  excelsis,  putting  the  devil  into  the  dancers'  feet; 


350  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

greedy  of  adulation,  however  cheap,  spurning  its  expression  in 
francs  and  sous,  when  honest  Blanquette  —  on  the  homeward 
journey  —  proffered  him  'the  glittering  treasure,'  only  to  dis 
cover  that  it  was  all  her  own:  Blanquette  herself  —  earnest  and 
bewildered  —  an  '  astonishingly  naked  fowl '  on  her  lap  —  only 
prevented  from  weeping  outright  by  the  awful  threat:  'If  you 
spill  tears  on  the  fowl  it  will  be  too  salt  and  I  shall  throw  it  out 
of  the  window  — !' 

There  she  broke  off  —  and  the  audience  had  their  say  again, 
at  considerable  length. 

Van,  going  forward  to  receive  her,  was  forestalled  by  Sergeant 
Baird  with  a  bouquet  of  cowslips  and  violets. 

"A  token  frae  the  war-rds,  Nurse."  He  thrust  them  at  her, 
trying  to  bow  at  the  same  time.  "They're  no  gran',  but 
they're  bonny.  The  lads  plucked  them  for-r  ye  the  morrn." 

"Perfectly  lovely,"  she  said,  burying  her  face  in*them  to  cool 
her  cheeks  and  hide  her  emotion.  Then,  mounting  a  few  steps, 
she  held  her  flowers  aloft,  bowing  and  smiling  her  thanks. 

After  that,  Van  securely  annexed  her,  but  there  was  little 
further  chance  of  intimate  talk. 

A  few  more  items  from  the  men,  and  the  'sing-song'  concluded 
with  mild  refreshments.  The  four  women  dispensed  coffee  and 
lemonade.  The  men  crowded  round  the  tables  laughing  and 
joking  like  a  lot  of  overgrown  schoolboys,  completely  at  their 
ease;  and  the  atmosphere  became  thicker  than  ever.  Gabrielle, 
as  proxy  hostess,  would  permit  no  monopoly  even  to  the  favoured 
Van.  But  once,  during  a  comparative  lull  at  her  corner,  he 
slipped  in  his  question  about  her  necklace. 

"Is  it  quite  out  of  order,"  he  said  in  a  lowered  voice,  "to 
ask  who  was  responsible  for  your  top-hole  row  of  pearls  ? 

"I  rather  think  it  is!"  she  rebuked  him  with  a  glance.  "But 
there's  no  mystery  about  them.  My  stepfather,  who  spoils  me 
badly,  had  them  collected  for  my  twenty-first  birthday.  I 
fancy  it  took  some  years." 

"I  can  believe  it.  I'm  a  bit  of  a  connoisseur.  The  Avon- 
leigh  pearls  are  Ai.  So  are  those.  And  —  you  are  worthy  of 
them,"  he  added,  so  low  that  apparently  she  did  not  hear. 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  351 

The  shell-shock  boy  had  come  for  more  coffee  and  she  kept 
him  an  endless  age  talking  about  the  bouquet  and  his  violets. 
Van  privately  considered  she  carried  that  sort  of  thing  too  far. 
He  was  not  at  all  sure  whether  he  would  countenance  this  kind 
of  work  if — ?  Or  was  it  when — ?  The  tilt  was  becoming 
perilously  acute  — 

Mark  —  sitting  with  Derek  a  little  way  off  —  kept  an  observ 
ant  eye  on  them  both,  and  approved  of  Gabrielle's  gracious- 
ness  to  young  Robin  under  Van's  aristocratic  nose. 

"Our  Gay  is  scoring  quite  a  little  triumph,"  he  remarked 
presently.  "I  always  knew  the  men  were  fond  of  her;  but  to 
night  they've  kind  of  let  themselves  go.  Schonberg's  obviously 
struck.  And  the  great  Van  appears  to  be  trembling  on  the 
brink!" 

Derek  nodded.  He  happened  to  be  looking  in  the  same 
direction.  "Some  women  seem  to  be  natural-born  magnets," 
he  said  with  particular  deliberation.  "It's  a  two-edged  gift. 
Hope  she  won't  be  spoilt  by  it  all." 

Mark  laughed.  "  You  old  Puritan !  Gay's  not  a  child.  And 
a  little  wholesome  admiration  is  twice  blest.  I'll  lay  long  odds 
she  hasn't  a  notion  she's  been  the  making  of  my  show.  She  has 
the  true  French  gift  —  the  mixture  of  brains  and  social  sense 
that  created  the  salons.  Pure  intuition.  That's  the  beauty  of 
it.  Women  made  that  way  take  'some'  spoiling." 

Derek  smiled  and  said  nothing.  Gabrielle  herself  was  coming 
towards  them  — 


CHAPTER  VI 

We  can  never  judge  another  soul  above  the  high-water  mark  of  our  mvn.. 

MAETERLINCK 

THAT  night  Van  lay  awake  for  more  than  an  hour  after  he  had 
switched  off  his  light:  an  event  so  rare  as  to  be  almost  a  portent. 
The  surprises  and  mixed  emotions  of  the  evening  had  swept 
him  forward  faster  than  he  had  quite  intended  to  go;  and  the 
new  Gabrielle,  whose  acquaintance  he  had  only  just  made, 
haunted  his  wakeful  brain.  The  queenly  look  of  her  as  she 
came  to  the  edge  of  the  stage,  the  unexpected  beauty  of  her 
hair;  and  the  thrill  that  seemed  to  run  all  through  her  when  she 
spoke  Kipling's  majestic  lines  —  each  fresh  vision  emphasized 
his  lurking  conviction  that,  in  common  decency,  he  could  no 
longer  sit  gracefully  on  the  fence.  He  knew  very  well  that  he 
had  not  always  shown  such  chivalrous  consideration  for  the 
possible  wife  of  the  moment.  But  Miss  de  Vigne  was  different 
—  enchantingly  different !  And  there  were  other  considerations 
urging  him  forward:  vague  doubts  about  Dirks;  not  to  mentioi 
Karl,  whose  music  had  seemed  to  hypnotize  her.  Quite  un 
canny!  Why  the  deuce  had  he  never  let  on?  At  all  events, 
Gay  de  Vigne  was  not  for  such  as  he;  and  the  sooner  he  knew  it, 
the  better. 

He,  Van,  would  take  Wynchcombe  Friars  on  his  way  back; 
and  —  to  be  frank,  he  entertained  no  serious  doubt  as  to  her 
answer.  Well  —  she  was  worth  the  price;  and  a  fellow  must 
pay  it  some  time,  for  some  woman.  But,  even  for  her,  it  was 
no  light  matter  to  give  up  his  untrammelled  freedom  —  and 
Leonie.  A  blow  for  her;  and  distinctly  a  wrench  for  himself. 
But  —  being  Van  —  he  dreaded  the  prospect  of  telling  her  a 
good  deal  more  than  the  prospect  of  giving  her  up.  On  that 
point,  at  least,  he  did  not  waver.  Stevenson  was  right.  "When 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  353 

a  man  marries,  there  is  nothing  for  it  —  not  even  suicide,  but 
to  be  good!"  More  especially,  Van  reflected  sleepily,  if  he 
happens  to  marry  a  Gabrielle  de  Vigne!  .  .  . 

He  woke  early,  with  a  sense  of  something  tugging  at  his 
brain.  He  consulted  his  watch.  Rotten  luck!  It  seemed  an 
age  to  breakfast  time;  and  resettling  his  pillow,  he  coaxed 
oblivion.  Not  the  remotest  use.  He  felt  ridiculously  restless; 
and  restlessness  begot  inspiration.  It  was  a  ripping  morn 
ing.  Why  not  get  up  on  the  chance,  if  a  hot  bath  was 
available  .  .  .? 

She  had  to  be  up  at  some  inhuman  hour,  to  give  those  fellows 
their  breakfast.  Thoroughly  good  fellows,  of  course.  But  a 
woman  like  her !  It  was  a  bit  too  thick.  Well  —  in  a  few 
days'  time  he  might  have  the  right  to  put  his  foot  down.  To 
day  —  perhaps  —  if  he  chanced  to  meet  her  in  the  garden. 
Nothing  like  striking  when  the  mood  was  on  — ! 

He  did  not  meet  her  in  the  garden.  He  only  met  a  mildly 
astonished  housemaid  in  the  hall.  The  empty  terrace  beyond 
the  shadow  of  the  house  was  drenched  in  spring  sunshine;  and 
the  crisp,  May  morning  air  had  a  faint  scent  of  wallflowers. 
A  mass  of  them  were  out  under  the  drawing-room  window. 
Queer  sensation  getting  up  so  early.  Rather  like  arriving  at  a 
ball  before  one's  hostess.  Everything  ready  and  empty  and 
waiting  — 

If  only  he  had  her  beside  him  now  and  they  could  stroll  down 
those  steps  into  the  pinewood,  he  felt  convinced  he  could  pull 
it  through.  Decidedly  the  mood  was  on  — !  But  she 'was  not 
beside  him,  worse  luck.  She  was  fooling  about  in  wards  where 
a  dozen  men  had  slept,  or  giving  them  breakfast  —  including 
Dirks.  Lucky  devil,  Dirks!  A  wonder  he  hadn't  succumbed 
himself  before  now. 

Not  the  least  use  hanging  about.  So  he  went  down  into  the 
pinewood  alone:  and  returned  with  a  very  prosaic  appetite  for 
breakfast.  Still  no  one  about,  except  that  pasty-looking  shell- 
shock  boy  near  the  front  door,  jigging  a  perambulator  —  of 
all  unlikely  vehicles!  Tired  of  his  own  company,  Van  gave  him 


354  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

a  friendly  greeting  and  discovered  that  the  occupant  of  the 
vehicle  was  a  foreign-looking  infant  with  eyes  like  sloes  and  a 
crop  of  thick  black  hair. 

"What  kind  of  a  surprise  packet  is  this?"  he  asked  with  mild 
facetiousness.  "The  latest  thing  in  convalescents  —  eh?" 

The  boy  grinned  and  ogled  his  lively  charge. 

"Lord,  no,  sir!  Nothin'  much  wrong  with  'im.  'E's  Nurse 
de  Vigne's  baby  —  'e  is  —  the  little  ripper  ! " 

Van  stared  at  him  in  speechless  amazement. 

"Miss  de  Vigne's  .  .  .  ?"  he  echoed;  and  could  not  bring  him 
self  to  complete  the  crazy  conjunction. 

"Just  so,  sir,"  the  boy  confirmed  him  gravely.  "Come 
along  with  'er  from  France,  'e  did.  She  thinks  the  world  of 
'im.  I  took  'im  over  a  minute,  so's  the  girl  Anna-Marree  could 
go  an'  find  'er  — 

"Talk  of  an  angel,"  murmured  Van  strictly  to  himself.  For 
on  the  word,  Gabrielle  appeared  at  the  front  door,  her  whole 
face  tenderly  illumined  —  for  him  ?  Not  at  all.  That  was 
easily  seen  by  her  start  of  recognition  and  her  ghost  of  a  blush. 

"Down  so  early!  Good-morning,"  she  said;  and  lifting  his 
cap,  he  went  forward. 

"I  say,  Forsyth's  too  casual  with  these  chaps,"  he  protested 
low  and  hurriedly.  "Young  Robin,  there,  is  talking  moonshine 
about  that  foreign  kid  —  belonging  to  you  — 

To  his  dismay  she  laughed  outright.  "Moonshine  indeed! 
Have  I  never  mentioned  him?  He's  my  little  piou-piou  —  my 
soldier  of  France  — 

At  that  point  the  embryo  warrior  gurgled  invitingly  and 
flourished  a  pair  of  brown  fists. 

"Ah,  cheri  —  pauvre  petit!"  And,  deserting  the  bewildered 
Van,  she  flew  to  the  creature,  and  leaned  over  it,  cooing  French 
baby-talk,  her  face  all  tenderness  —  a  picture  to  delight  the  eye 
and  stir  the  heart. 

But  Van's  eye  was  not  delighted,  nor  his  heart  stirred.  Half 
a  dozen  words  of  greeting  for  himself  —  not  a  syllable  of  ex 
planation  —  and  there  she  was,  fussing  over  a  stray  kid  under 
the  eyes  of  that  half-addled  boy.  It  was  an  utterly  unlocked- 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  355 

for  aberration  of  the  kind  he  was  least  able  to  condone.  He 
felt  angrier  with  her  than  he  would  have  believed  possible  a 
couple  of  hours  ago  — ! 

Once  she  glanced  towards  him;  but  he  stood  his  ground, 
twisting  his  moustache,  awaiting  the  appearance  of  Anne-Marie. 
The  pause  gave  him  time  to  calm  down.  He  must  treat  the 
thing  lightly  —  exercise  tact.  In  that  last  he  rarely  failed: 
but  then  —  he  was  seldom  so  deeply  moved. 

Thank  Heaven!  The  girl  at  last!  After  some  injunctions 
and  further  caresses,  the  infant  was  wheeled  away  towards  the 
rose-garden  escorted  by  the  shell-shock  boy. 

Gabrielle's  smiling  eyes  looked  straight  into  his  own;  but  she 
did  not  move  a  step  towards  him. 

''Such  a  pathetic  little  mite!"  she  said.  "Not  a  belonging 
in  the  world." 

"Better  off  than  some  of  'em  anyway,"  Van  answered,  com 
ing  forward.  "  You  seem  to  be  making  ample  amends." 

"Feeble  amends,"  she  corrected  him.  "The  most  one  can 
do  in  such  a  case  is  less  than  nothing." 

"As  to  that  —  I'm  no  judge.  But  —  am  I  allowed  to  ask, 
How  —  when  —  and  where  ?  " 

"Naturally!"  She  seemed  pleased  that  he  cared  to  hear. 
Even  now  she  was  thinking  chiefly  of  that  confounded  kid. 
"As  to  where  —  it  was  in  a  dressing-station.  As  to  when  —  it 
was  about  two  months  before  I  left  France."  They  had  moved 
towards  the  balustrade,  on  which  she  seated  herself,  pressing 
her  hands  palm-downwards  on  the  rough  stone.  "One  of  our 
wounded  Tommies  brought  in  a  bundle  over  which  he  was  touch- 
ingly  solicitous.  He  called  it  his  '  bit  o'  luggage ' ;  and,  opening  a 
corner  of  the  bundle,  showed  me  the  little  dark  head.  It  was 
so  little  —  so  lost,  it  caught  at  my  heart.  He  told  me  it  had 
rolled  unnoticed  out  of  a  cart  packed  with  French  refugees. 
He  was  lying  there  wounded  and  thought  nothing  about  it,  till 
a  thin  sound  came  from  the  bundle.  Then  he  dragged  himself 
into  the  road  and  found  it  was  a  baby,  a  few  months  old.  The 
cart,  of  course,  had  disappeared;  so  the  good  fellow  cherished  it 
and  kept  it  warm  till  he  was  'collected'  and  brought  in.  You 


356  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

wouldn't  believe  the  fuss  he  made  of  his  'little  souvenir.'  And 
when  his  turn  came  to  pass  on,  he  couldn't  bear  leaving  it. 
The  only  way  I  could  comfort  him  was  to  promise  I  would  take 
charge  of  it  and  keep  it  myself  —  if  no  parents  were  ever  found. 
So  the  pauvre  petit  was  solemnly  bestowed  on  me,  as  a  parting 
gift;  and  two  months  afterwards  the  poor  fellow  was  killed." 

Van  emitted  a  murmur  of  sympathy.  "  But  how  about  you  ?" 
he  added,  after  a  pause.  "Landed  with  a  stray  unaccountable 
infant—" 

Her  smile,  at  that  so  characteristic  question,  had  in  it  a  sus 
picion  of  pity  —  or  was  it  contempt? 

"France  is  so  full  of  'unaccountable  infants'  that  one  more 
or  less  scarcely  excites  remark,"  she  said;  and  he  detected  a 
changed  note  in  her  voice.  "Of  course  I  could  not  see  after 
it  while  I  worked  in  hospital;  so  a  friend  took  him  home  for  me 
to  Mrs.  Macnair,  who  works  among  refugees,  on  the  bare 
chance  that  some  one  might  be  found  to  claim  him.  I  don't 
suppose  any  one  ever  will." 

"And  — in  that  case?" 

"Naturally,  I  keep  my  treasure-trove.  He  was  a  gift.  I 
promised." 

"But  —  why  — "     He  hesitated  and  was  lost. 

"Why — ?  Because  I've  a  woman's  heart  in  my  body  and 
French  blood  in  my  veins!"  she  flashed  out,  her  cheeks  on  fire, 
the  sparks  alight  in  her  eyes. 

Van,  being  unobservant,  had  not  noticed  the  orange  flecks; 
and  their  swift  ignition  completely  took  him  aback.  He  had 
not  dreamed  she  could  be  a  spitfire;  and  he  looked  aggrieved. 
"I  hadn't  finished  my  sentence.  You  might  give  a  fellow  a 
chance.  I  only  meant  why —  in  this  way  ?  Aren't  there  plenty 
of  homes  and  things?" 

"Of  course  there  are,  for  creatures  no  one  cares  about.  But 
I  happen  to  care  for  the  child."  She  rose  to  her  feet,  very 
erect  and  dignified.  "We  are  not  talking  the  same  language. 
And  I  ought  to  be  getting  back  to  my  work." 

But  as  she  moved  away,  he  followed,  divided  between  anger 
and  dismay.  He  had  failed  in  tact  after  all  —  and  failed  badly. 


HANDMAID   OF  THE  GODS  357 

"Miss  de  Vigne,"  he  urged,  "honour  bright,  I  never  meant 
to  vex  you.  But  your  generosity  blinds  you  a  bit  — " 

He  broke  off  there,  in  impotent  vexation.  Derek  and  Karl 
were  coming  out  of  the  house. 

Confounding  their  intrusion,  he  hoped  —  vainly  —  that  they 
had  not  noticed  anything  amiss.  He  was  leaving  soon  after 
breakfast.  He  must  get  in  another  word  with  her  somehow. 
Had  she  been  simply  amusing  herself?  Didn't  she  care  a  rap 
whether  he  was  choked  off  by  that  beastly  baby  or  not  ? 

There  she  was  making  herself  no  end  charming  to  old 
Karl,  who  couldn't  keep  his  eyes  off  her  face.  That  was 
more  than  he  could  stand,  just  then:  and  suddenly  it  struck 
him  that  a  word  with  Derek  might  not  be  amiss.  If  Dirks 
knew  he  hated  the  whole  thing  —  and  had  an  inkling  of  the 
reason  why  —  he  might  make  himself  useful,  being  on  the 
spot. 

So,  ignoring  Karl  and  Miss  de  Vigne,  he  slipped  a  hand 
through  Derek's  arm.  "Come  for  a  stroll,  old  chap,"  he  said. 
"We're  off  directly  after  breakfast." 

"What's  in  the  wind?"  thought  Derek,  knowing  his  Van. ' 

He  was  not  left  long  in  doubt.  After  a  brief  preamble,  Van 
came  to  business.  "I  say,  Dirks,"  he  began  in  a  confidential 
tone,  "what  the  devil  are  Forsyth  and  his  wife  up  to,  encourag 
ing  Miss  de  Vigne  in  her  romantic  notions  about  that  infant 
she's  picked  up  in  France?" 

Derek  began  to  see  light.  "Better  ask  Mark  yourself,"  he 
said.  "It's  not  a  Sergeant's  place  to  lecture  his  C.O.I" 

But  Van  was  in  no  mood  for  chaff. 

"Don't  talk  piffle.  And  don't  come  the  bally  Sergeant  over 
me !  There  was  young  Robin  presenting  the  creature  to  me  as 
'Nurse  de  Vigne's  baby.'  Sentimental  rot!  Putting  herself 
in  a  false  position.  You  might  rub  it  in  when  you're  off  duty, 
so  to  speak.  I'm  in  earnest  over  this  affair;  and  —  well  —  you 
understand  how  that  sort  of  thing  rubs  me  up.  A  woman's 
good  name — " 

Derek  gave  him  a  quick  look.  "Miss  de  Vigne's  good  name 
is  in  no  danger  here" 


358  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"I  never  said  it  was.  But  —  the  look  of  the  thing.  You 
know  what  I  mean  — " 

"I  ought  to  by  this  time,"  said  Derek  with  his  baffling  gravity. 
"In  the  best  circles  —  it's  not  done!  If  it  really  upsets  you 
I'll  do  what  I  can.  But  she's  her  own  mistress  and  she  has  a 
particular  sentiment  for  the  child." 

"Yes.    That's  the  deuce  of  it." 

"  Generally  is  —  with  women,"  murmured  the  sapient  Derek; 
and  at  that  moment  the  blurred  resonance  of  the  gong  reached 
their  ears.  "Breakfast,  old  man,"  he  said  briskly.  "Mustn't 
be  late.  They're  punctual  here." 

"Late!  I've  been  rolling  round  since  eight  o'clock,  and  I'm 
starving.  We  must  be  off  soon  after  ten.  Au  revoir  —  when 
the  gods  permit." 

"I  thought  it  was  to-morrow." 

"// 1  can  fit  things  in.     I'll  ring  up." 

At  breakfast,  Gabrielle  sat  near  Mark,  and  they  kept  up  a 
lively  flow  of  talk,  chiefly  about  'the  show,'  to  Van's  quite  un 
reasonable  annoyance. 

When  the  meal  was  over,  he  saw  her  slip  out  with  a  garden 
basket  and  scissors.  He  thought:  "The  basket's  a  blind. 
She's  after  that  infant."  And  slipping  out  himself,  he  came  up 
with  her  halfway  to  the  rose  garden. 

She  turned  with  a  start.     "What  is  it?" 

For  a  second,  he  looked  —  and  felt  —  uncomfortable.  Then 
his  native  assurance  triumphed. 

"It's  only  —  we'll  be  off  soon.  And  —  I  wanted  to  say  —  if 
I  put  the  wrong  foot  forward,  please  forgive  me.  And  —  do 
reconsider  things  a  bit.  I'm  not  asking  you  to  chuck  the  kid; 
only  to  drop  —  the  personal  touch." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Not  even  —  for  my  sake?"  he  ventured  boldly.  And  at 
that  she  drew  in  her  lip. 

"I  don't  want  to  seem  ungracious.  But  I  can  make  no 
promises  —  no  conditions.  You  see  —  I  love  the  child  — " 

Van  sighed.  He  was  honestly  puzzled.  "I  admit  —  I  can't 
understand — " 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  359 

She  smiled.  "I  suppose  —  only  a  woman  could!  Besides 
—  if  I  make  promises,  I  keep  them.  Good-bye." 

In  spite  of  annoyance  and  bewilderment,  Van  held  her  hand 
longer  than  usual ;  and  fancied  —  but  could  not  swear  to  it  — 
that  his  pressure  was  returned. 


CHAPTER  VII 

That  which  we  have  not  dared  to  risk  is  most  surely  lost  of  all. 

MAETERLINCK 

VAN  drove  down  to  Avonleigh  feeling  phenomenally  out  of  love 
with  himself  and  life.  Not  a  single  item  of  his  very  reasonable 
expectations  had  been  fulfilled.  Miss  de  Vigne,  for  all  her 
breeding  and  her  charm  —  not  to  mention  her  bank  account 
—  had  shown  signs  of  being  an  enigma,  also  a  spitfire.  And 
he  had  small  use  for  either  as  a  wife.  Only  a  few  hours  earlier 
it  had  been:  'Line  clear.  Full  steam  ahead.'  Now  it  was: 
'  Grade  crossing.  Go  slow! '  That  she  could  risk  losing  him  for 
the  sake  of  a  foundling  baby!  He  wouldn't  have  believed  it  of 
her.  And  the  way  she  fussed  over  it;  the  look  in  her  eyes  when 
she  said,  'I  love  the  child,'  so  maddened  him  that,  in  the 
dustiest  corner  of  his  worldly  soul,  a  despicable  suspicion  reared 
its  head.  He  scotched  it  instantly;  angry  with  himself;  angrier 
still  with  her;  angriest  of  all  with  the  helpless  infant,  who  had 
dared  to  roll  out  of  that  cart  and  become  a  stone  of  stumbling 
in  his  path.  He  had  half  a  mind  to  go  back  on  Sunday  and  tell 
her  outright  that  she  must  choose  between  him  and  that  beastly 
infant.  And  again  he  had  half  a  mind  to  stay  away  for  some 
weeks.  Bring  her  to  her  senses,  and  trust  Dirks  to  clear  the 
course.  But  he  was  in  no  mood  for  making  decisions.  He 
felt  thoroughly  unsettled  and  aggrieved.  .  .  . 

So  he  sat  silent,  impervious  to  the  beauty  of  the  morning, 
idly  studying  Karl's  impassive  profile  and  wondering:  "Is  it  a 
sudden  smite?  Or  is  it  a  case  of  the  worm  i'  the  bud  .  .  .?" 

Being  a  Blount,  he  refrained  from  embarrassing  his  friend  by 
so  intimate  a  question;  and  Karl  also  remained  silent,  appar 
ently  intent  on  the  car.  He  thoroughly  enjoyed  handling  the 
wheel;  but  it  struck  him  that  Van  was  pretty  lavish  with  his 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  361 

petrol,  considering  the  restrictions.  How  the  dickens  did  he 
come  by  it  all?  Like  Van,  however,  he  refrained  from  undue 
curiosity ;  the  more  readily  because  his  mind  was  elsewhere,  and 
his  uplifted  heart  soaring  like  a  lark  in  the  blue. 

For  Karl  Schonberg  loved  Gabrielle  de  Vigne  with  the  sen 
timental  adoration  of  the  German  —  before  marriage  —  and  the 
quiet  tenacity  of  the  Englishman.  Since  the  far-off  day,  when 
her  hair  had  floated  like  a  dusky  cloud  about  her  shoulders, 
she  had  been  enshrined  in  his  heart  as  the  Unattainable  Princess, 
enchantingly  remote :  so  remote,  that  the  passing  loves  and  pas 
sions  of  adolescence  could  perfectly  well  co-exist  with  his  deeper, 
unchanging  allegiance.  For  Karl  was  by  nature  amorous.  As 
music  was  the  wine  of  life,  so  woman  was  the  bread  of  life:  and 
at  Oxford  there  had  been  many  stars  of  the  second  and  third 
magnitude.  But  the  existence  of  one  secret  star,  that  out 
shone  them  all,  had  not  even  been  suspected  by  Van,  of  whose 
utilitarian  attitude  to  women  Karl  frankly  disapproved.  And 
through  it  all,  he  had  never  quite  lost  hope  that,  some  day,  he 
might  overcome  Gabrielle's  antipathy  to  his  father's  race  and 
name. 

The  blow  of  her  unexpected  call  to  Canada  had  driven  him, 
very  nearly,  to  speak  out  and  risk  refusal.  But,  to  begin  with, 
he  saw  no  hope.  To  go  on  with,  he  was  determined  to  achieve 
a  position,  independent  of  his  father,  before  confessing  all  and 
demanding  all. 

And  lo  —  before  she  returned,  his  unspoken  question  had 
been  answered,  in  terrible  fashion,  by  the  thunder  of  German 
guns  in  Belgium,  and  England's  Call  to  Arms.  If  he  knew  any 
thing  of  her  —  and  he  did  not  know  a  great  deal  —  she  would 
ignore  the  English  mother  he  had  worshipped  and  see  only  his 
painfully  conspicuous  German  father. 

So,  for  the  time  being,  she  had  vanished  out  of  his  life.  He 
had  known  she  was  at  Wynchcombe  Friars:  and,  since  Derek's 
arrival,  had  been  tempted  more  than  once  to  write  and  ask  if 
he  might  run  over  and  see  him.  Yet  always  at  the  last  he 
shrank  from  the  actual  encounter.  But  Van's  casual  sugges 
tion,  and  Sir  Mark's  request  for  music,  had  proved  more  than 


362  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

mortal  man  could  resist.  Here  was  a  chance  —  amazing,  un 
looked-for —  of  playing  to  her,  and  her  only,  the  'Serenade,' 
inspired  by  her,  written  to  her  — 

The  rest  would  neither  know  nor  understand.  But  she,  with 
her  delicate  woman's  instinct,  might  possibly  guess  — 

And  now  —  the  thing  was  done:  the  Great  Moment  over! 
Though  her  greeting  had  cut  him  to  the  quick,  his  music  had 
wrought  a  miracle  and  evoked  divine  response.  Even  if  no 
more  came  of  it,  that  one  triumphant  hour  was  a  jewel  of 
memory  that  no  man  could  take  from  him. 

It  had  been  something  of  a  jar  to  find  that  Van  himself  was 
in  the  field.  It  emphasized,  unpleasantly,  the  break  in  their 
intimacy;  and  —  jealousy  apart  —  it  fired  him  to  chivalrous 
indignation.  Van  —  he  felt  convinced  —  was  after  her  money. 
Presumably  he  had  failed  with  Miss  Doreen;  and,  simply  as  a 
business  proposition,  was  looking  elsewhere.  The  mere  thought 
of  it  goaded  Karl,  almost,  to  speak  up  and  tell  her  how  he  had 
waited  and  worked,  all  these  years,  on  the  bare  chance  of  win 
ning  her.  It  seemed  unbearable  that  Van,  who  had  run  after 
many  strange  goddesses,  should  step  in  at  the  eleventh  hour 
and  —  by  virtue  of  his  race  and  heritage  —  have  her  for  the 
asking  — 

Certainly  something  was  amiss  on  the  terrace.  And  Van's 
silence  was  phenomenal.  Karl  decided  that  a  few  diplomatic 
feelers  would  be  legitimate  —  perhaps  fruitful. 

"You  seem  rather  hipped,  old  chap!"  he  said  sympathetically, 
slackening  speed  that  the  car  might  take  the  long  incline  with 
out  straining  her  gear.  "Had  a  bad  night?" 

Van,  who  was  lighting  a  cigarette,  turned  a  speculative  eye 
on  him. 

"I'm  not  quite  so  far  gone  as  to  indulge  in  nulls  blanches,"  he 
said  cryptically.  "Preening  your  feathers  —  are  you  —  after 
last  night's  little  triumph?  Why  have  /  never  been  honoured?  " 

Karl  reddened.  "Oh,  you  know  very  well,"  he  said  in  a 
changed  tone.  "You  don't  really  care  a  rap  for  it.  Those 
fellows  did." 

"Quite.     So,  by  the  way,  did  Miss  de  Vigne.     Did  you 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  363 

happen  to  notice?  You  hypnotized  her.  Give  you  my 
word." 

Karl  grew  redder  than  ever.  He  thought:  "Did  I  hopelessly 
give  myself  away?" 

And  Van  thought:  "It's  taken  him  pretty  badly.  Does  he 
imagine  he  has  a  ghost  of  a  chance?  —  If  it  wasn't  for  this 
cursed  hitch  about  the  kid,  it  would  be  fairer  on  old  Karl  to 
make  my  intentions  clear."  But  between  the  compromising 
situation,  and  Gabrielle's  tacit  disregard  of  his  wishes,  his 
ardour  of  the  morning  had  sensibly  cooled.  So  he  merely 
added,  after  a  pause:  "Wasn't  it  Benedick  who  thought  it 
damned  queer  that  sheep's  guts  could  hale  the  souls  out  of 
men's  bodies?  With  the  assistance  of  your  precious  fiddle  you 
seem  to  have  made  quite  a  haul  in  that  line." 

Karl  grunted.  "They  were  awfully  kind.  Sir  Mark  asked 
me  to  come  again  soon." 

"  Going  to  make  a  regular  thing  of  it  —  what?  " 

Karl  looked  round  deliberately  and  Van  detected,  not  for  the 
first  time,  a  hint  of  Schonberg's  sleepy  power  in  his  eyes.  There 
were  moments  when  he  found  his  unassailably  good-tempered 
friend  the  most  exasperating  man  in  the  three  Kingdoms.  "I 
shall  go,  if  I'm  wanted  —  whenever  I  can,"  he  said. 

"Jolly  good  of  you!  I  had  a  notion  you  were  too  busy  to 
find  time  for  'scooting  round  the  county.' " 

"A  good  deal  depends  on  the  errand.  You  seem  to  find 
time  for  driving  the  men  out.  Why  the  deuce  shouldn't  I 
fiddle  to  them,  if  they  care  to  hear?" 

Van's  wink  said  plainly:  "Tell  that  to  the  Marines!"  His 
lips  said:  "And  the  rest  —  eh?  Let  'em  hear  by  all  means,  so 
long  as  you  don't  get  neglecting  Avonleigh." 

Karl's  face  stiffened;  a  flash  of  temper  lightened  in  his  eyes. 
"There's  a  limit  to  what  I'll  put  up  with,  Van  —  even  from  you. 
I'm  doing  my  job,  and  something  over.  If  you're  not  satisfied 
with  my  services  —  you  can  dispense  with  them." 

Van  stared  in  blank  amazement.  Karl  in  revolt  would  never 
do  — 

"  What's  up,  old  man?  "  he  said,  with  his  most  disarming  smile. 


364  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"If  my  harmless  remark  makes  you  see  red  —  it's  a  wash-out. 
You  know  jolly  well  that  neither  Avonleigh  nor  I  could  get 
along  without  you." 

But  Karl  was  only  half  mollified.  "If  that's  so,  you  might 
give  me  credit  for  managing  my  own  affairs  without  detriment 
to  yours." 

"Right-o!"  murmured  Van;  and  said  no  more  till  they  had 
swept  down  the  far  side  of  the  hill  and  were  back  on  level 
ground  again.  Then  he  remarked  conversationally:  "By  the 
way,  I've  news  for  you  —  about  Burnt  Hill  House." 

Karl  suppressed  his  start  of  surprise.  "Old  Bridgman's 
breaking  up  and  your  father  doesn't  feel  quite  satisfied  about 
his  domestics." 

"He  isn't  singular  in  that  sensation,"  Karl  remarked  quietly. 

"Oh,  I  know  there  are  wild  tales.  But  Schonberg's  con 
sidered  opinion  is  another  pair  of  sleeves.  Anyway,  when  he 
was  down  there  on  Thursday,  he  persuaded  Bridgman  to  clear 
'em  out  neck  and  crop.  The  old  fellow  goes  to  Torquay  — 
with  a  handsome  honorarium.  By  shutting  up  the  house,  at 
least  we  shall  shut  the  gossips'  mouths.  He's  a  useful  friend  — 
your  father." 

But  Karl  harked  back  to  the  main  point.  "And  the  fishy 
pah*  —  what's  come  to  them?" 

"Haven't  the  foggiest!  And  I  don't  care  a  damn,  so  long  as 
we're  quit  of  them." 

Karl  suppressed  a  smile.  "It's  a  good  move,"  was  all  he 
said.  "It  would  have  been  a  better  move  still  —  a  year  ago." 
As  they  neared  the  turning  to  the  Hall,  he  added:  "If  you  don't 
mind  taking  her  on,  I'll  walk  home  and  send  up  later  for  my 
valise." 

"Why  not  come  along  to  the  Hall?" 

"  No  time,  thanks.  There'll  be  piles  of  arrears."  He  stopped 
the  car,  secured  his  violin  case,  and  sprang  out. 

"Not  still  in  a  huff,  are  you,  Karl?"  Van  asked  with  af 
fectionate  concern. 

"No.  But  I  run  straight  —  and  I  like  to  be  treated 
accordingly." 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  365 

"You'll  never  be  treated  otherwise  by  me.  I'm  jolly  glad 
you  enjoyed  yourself  and  scored  a  hit." 

With  which  generous  amende  he  set  the  car  purring  and  was 
soon  out  of  sight. 

Karl's  zeal  to  tackle  those  arrears  cooled  considerably,  once 
he  was  alone  in  his  sanctum.  It  was  a  hybrid  room  that  re 
vealed  the  twofold  nature  of  the  man:  the  practical  worker, 
with  his  meticulous  German  brain;  and  the  artist,  with  his  love 
of  beauty  and  comfort,  his  weakness  for  the  feminine  touch, 
even  to  a  vase  of  flowers  on  his  desk.  There  were  good  pictures, 
well-bound  books,  and  capacious  cushions  in  his  lonely  chair 
by  the  fireplace  —  its  gaping  emptiness  stacked  with  pots  of 
ferns.  Into  this  chair  he  flung  himself;  and  there  lay  motion 
less  —  while  the  minute  hand  crept  round  the  face  of  the  clock. 

Next  week  he  would  see  her  and  play  to  her  again.  How  if 
he  were  to  win  her,  simply  through  his  violin?  It  was  the 
kind  of  romantic  idea  that  caught  his  fancy.  But  his  common- 
sense  brain  said:  'Rot!  Van  would  be  at  the  goal  before  you 
and  your  fiddle  had  won  halfway.'  And  Van  didn't  deserve 
her.  He  would  take  her  for  granted,  as  he  took  Avonleigh  for 
granted  and  all  the  other  good  things  that  accrued  to  him  with 
out  effort.  Whereby  it  will  be  seen  that  Karl's  old  admiration 
of  his  friend  had  been  unconsciously  disintegrated  by  that 
gentleman  himself.  In  time  of  peace,  one  could  be  mildly 
amused  by  his  foibles,  his  unassailable  serenity;  and  love  him 
none  the  less.  But,  when  the  hurricane  of  war  —  that  quickens 
the  spirit,  while  it  destroys  the  body  —  seemed  scarcely  to  stir 
one  metaphorical  hair  of  his  head,  amusement  had  changed  to 
impatience.  If  he  had  said  little,  it  was  merely  because  the 
unexpected  intrusion  of  his  father  had  tied  his  tongue. 

Was  ever  man  —  he  wondered  with  increasing  bitterness  — 
more  distractingly  placed?  That  his  father,  whom  he  innately 
distrusted,  should  have  chosen  the  very  eve  of  war  to  embark 
upon  a  calculated  intimacy  with  his  own  closest  friend!  That 
he  should  further  be  compelled  to  stand  by  and  watch  Van 
placidly  giving  himself  away:  and  more  than  himself,  for  aught 


366  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Karl  knew!  There  were  times  when  he  half  crazed  his  brain 
with  wondering  how  far  Schonberg's  good-humoured  contempt 
for  British  character  and  policy  cloaked  active  hostility:  how 
much  harm  he  was  doing  under  cover  of  England's  tolerant 
credulity  and  his  own  secret  hold  on  political  and  financial 
strings.  In  such  moods  Karl  had  often  been  tempted  to  throw 
aside  his  aloofness,  openly  tackle  his  father  and  denounce  him 
to  Van.  But  hitherto  that  brave  impulse  had  been  checked 
partly  by  foreknowledge  of  failure,  partly  by  the  inherent  spirit 
of  his  mother,  who  had  never  stood  up  to  her  formidable  hus 
band;  and  had  regarded  him,  as  a  Brobdignagian  being,  not  to 
be  judged  by  the  standards  of  lesser  men.  So  Karl  had  grown 
up  half  admiring,  half  fearing  and,  of  late,  wholly  distrusting  his 
inscrutable  father.  It  was  not  a  happy  state  of  things;  and  as 
the  War  looked  like  dragging  indefinitely  on  —  he  began  to  ask 
himself  how  it  would  end  .  .  . 

As  to  this  sudden  descent  on  Burnt  Hill  House  —  what  the 
devil  was  behind  it  all?  Why  had  that  suspicious  trio  —  left 
unmolested  for  months  —  been  blown  to  the  winds  by  a  word 
from  his  father's  mouth?  The  inference  was  so  distasteful  that 
Karl  tried  hard  to  look  the  other  way.  Persistent  gossip  had 
reached  him  lately  of  a  wireless  installation,  in  addition  to  the 
old  talk  of  lights  and  explosives.  He  had  stoutly  negatived  the 
rumour  and  had  done  his  best  to  stamp  it  out;  and  all  the  while, 
a  voice  in  his  brain  whispered:  'It  may  be  true.  Speak  up 
...  it  may  be  true.'  Now  there  sprang  the  horrid  question  — 
had  that  same  rumour  and  the  danger  of  discovery  prompted 
the  real  offender  to  cover  his  tracks  by  the  simple  process  of 
shifting  his  tools  elsewhere?  The  inherent  likelihood  of  the 
thing,  and  Van's  complacent  deafness  to  obvious  creakings  of 
machinery,  maddened  him.  Yet,  he  had  not  an  ounce  of  proof 
to  back  his  unfilial  suspicions,  which  might  conceivably  have 
sprung  from  the  German  kink  in  his  own  brain. 

"After  all,"  he  thought,  rising  and  stretching  himself,  "if 
Van  will  keep  his  blooming  eyes  bunged  up,  sooner  than  put 
his  back  into  things,  it's  not  for  me  to  throw  suspicion  on  my 
own  father — " 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  367 

He  was  none  the  happier  for  that  conclusion,  though  it 
absolved  him  from  action.  He  went  straight  to  his  desk;  and, 
ignoring  the  pile  of  envelopes  that  clamoured  for  attention, 
spent  half  an  hour  writing  to  Derek. 

The  inevitable  allusion  to  his  father  was  brief  and  guarded: 
"A  very  sudden  move  and  all  done  on  the  quiet  —  chiefly,  I 
gather,  at  my  father's  instigation.  Being  down  here  a  good 
deal,  I  suppose  he  heard  the  sort  of  talk  that  goes  on  and  was 
more  successful  than  we  were  in  convincing  Van!  I  would  like 
to  feel  sure  that  the  precious  pair  are  in  police  custody.  Van 
knows  nothing  about  them,  and  cares  less!  But  I  confess  I'm 
curious.  He  seems  doubtful  about  returning  via  Wynchcombe 
Friars  to-morrow.  Curiouser  still !" 

As  he  stamped  and  addressed  the  envelope  he  found  himself 
thinking:  "If  only  Derek  was  in  Van's  shoes!  If  only  there 
were  more  of  his  sort  in  our  unwieldy  councils  — !" 

But  he  had  wasted  too  much  time  already  in  vain  visions: 
and  lighting  a  pipe  he  proceeded  to  tackle  his  arrears  in  earnest. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Lose  who  may,  I  still  can  say  — 
Those  who  win  heaven,  blest  are  they. 

BROWNING 

ON  Sunday  morning  Derek  was  favoured  with  two  communi 
cations  from  Avonleigh.  In  addition  to  Karl's  letter,  with  its 
strange,  if  satisfactory  news,  there  was  a  brief  note  from  Van. 

DEAR  OLD  BLIGHTER, — 

I'm  afraid  after  all  I  can't  manage  Wynchcombe  Friars  in  my 
stride.  Give  Miss  de  Vigne  my  very  best  regards.  Tell  her  how  sorry 
I  am  to  defer  the  pleasure  —  and  all  that.  I  think  she  understood  I 
might  be  prevented.  Anyway,  say  polite  things  for  me  as  prettily  as 
your  natural  talent  for  not  saying  them  will  permit!  You  may  be 
interested  to  hear  that  Bridgman  has  definitely  crumpled  up  and 
we  are  shipping  the  poor  chap  off  to  Torquay.  He  sacked  his  do 
mestics  without  ceremony  —  at  Schonberg's  instigation.  Hope  thai 
trifling  fact  may  give  you  to  think,  and  take  some  of  the  stiffen 
ing  out  of  your  neck  muscles.  I'm  sending  Forsyth  a  polite  scrawl. 
Can't  say  when  I  shall  manage  another  trip.  But  I'll  let  you  know, 
old  boy. 

Yours  ever  VAN 

P.  S.  —  Remember  what  I  said  about  that  kid.  It's  not  fair  on 
Miss  de  Vigne.  Just  a  bit  of  misplaced  sentiment.  I  gave  her 
credit  for  more  common  sense.  —  V.  B. 

Derek  found  a  chance  to  deliver  his  message  after  breakfast, 
when  Gabrielle  was  tidying  the  ward. 

She  received  it  with  an  amused  twitch  of  her  charming  brows. 
"Those  committees!"  she  murmured,  shaking  her  head  at  a 
photograph  she  was  dusting.  "Where  should  we  be  without 
them?  Even  Mr.  Blount  can't  resist  the  spell." 

"But  he's  very  disappointed,"  Derek  urged,  making  a  heroic 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  369 

effort  to  say  the  polite  thing  in  the  proper  tone  of  voice.  "  May 
I  tell  him  —  you  are  sorry  too?  " 

"  Certainly  —  if  you  think  my  sorrow  will  ease  his  disappoint 
ment!" 

"That  sounds  unkind." 

She  smiled  at  him  with  her  eyes.  "It  was  not  unkindly 
meant."  She  was  silent  a  moment  needlessly  polishing  the 
glass  of  her  frame.  Then:  "I  have  a  confession  to  make," 
she  said  without  looking  up. 

"Well?" 

He  stood  watching  her  with  a  flutter  of  expectation,  to  which 
he  was  a  stranger.  He  found  her  very  baffling  this  morning. 

"I  was  unjust,  ungenerous  to  your  Karl.  Instead  of  snap 
ping  your  head  off  —  I  ought  to  have  known  you  were  sure  to 
be  right.  Jacko  trusted  your  judgment  always." 

"But  he  never  liked  Karl?" 

"No.     Did  you  —  in  those  days? " 

"  Not  much.     I  never  gave  him  a  chance." 

"Nor  did  we.  Can't  young  things  be  cruel?  I  was  glad 
Mark  asked  him  down  again." 

"So  was  he.  I  heard  from  him,  too,  this  morning.  The 
whole  thing  cheered  him  up,  no  end.  I'm  glad  you've  recanted, 
on  his  account  —  and  Van's." 

She  gave  him  an  odd  look.  "Are  you  very  devoted  —  you 
two  ?  In  Jamesian  language,  you  are  each  so  amazingly  other!" 

Derek  smiled.  "  Yet  I  think  we're  fonder  than  most  brothers. 
Van  can  be  very  aggravating;  but  in  the  right  mood,  he's  very 
lovable." 

She  nodded,  smiling  to  herself.  Then  setting  down  her 
picture,  she  said  briskly.  "Now  I  must  go  and  dispense  rations 
and  get  ready  for  church.  Are  you  for  the  wagonette?  Or 
can  you  manage  the  walk?" 

He  sighed.  "  Not  yet,  worse  luck !  I  suppose  I  shall  —  some 
day." 

"Of  course  you  will.  Look  at  the  improvement  since  you 
arrived." 

Her  baffling  mood  was  gone:  and  with  a  smile  of  frankest 


370  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

friendship  she  left  him  —  a  prey  to  vaguely  disturbing  sensa 
tions  that  he  was  doing  his  valiant  best  to  ignore.  Van  had 
said  he  meant  business.  His  own  share  in  it  was  to  clear  up 
this  difficulty  about  the  child.  Unauthorized  sensations  had 
no  say  in  the  matter.  And  anyway  —  what  chance  would  a 
man  have?  He  glanced  with  disfavour  at  his  offending  limb 
and  ill-clad  person. 

Karl's  letter  provided  ample  food  for  thought  along  more 
legitimate  lines.  If  they  had  all  been  mistaken  about  old  Schon- 
berg  —  so  much  the  better.  But  it  would  take  proofs  a  good 
deal  more  convincing  to  unstiffen  the  muscles  of  his  neck. 
Meantime,  the  hitch  in  Van's  smooth-running  courtship  held 
the  field  — 

Two  weeks  passed  without  word  or  sign  from  him;  also,  it 
must  be  confessed,  without  a  word  from  Derek  to  Mark  or 
Sheila  about  the  child.  It  was  such  a  distractingly  difficult 
and  delicate  subject.  He  felt  convinced  nothing  would  come  of 
it  but  futile  friction  with  Mark.  And,  after  all,  it  was  Van's 
affair.  Why  the  devil  should  he,  Derek,  be  called  upon  to  thrust 
a  clumsy  finger  into  it?  He  had  overstepped  the  limit,  in  that 
line,  on  his  own  account;  and,  in  the  process,  had  become  heart 
sick  and  disillusioned.  Yet  still  the  incurable  impulse  to  help 
goaded  him  like  a  force  outside  his  control.  It  was  an  idiotic 
muddle  all  round;  and  really  rather  stupid  of  Miss  de  Vigne  — 

But  he  found  it  did  not  do  to  start  criticizing  her.  It  revived 
sensations  that  must  be  ruthlessly  damped  down.  He  had 
learnt,  in  a  hard  school,  to  be  master  of  his  thoughts  and  pas 
sions;  and  —  in  spite  of  that  luckless  infant  —  he  practically 
regarded  her  as  Van's  future  wife.  He  inclined  more  and  more 
to  the  belief  that  she  'cared.'  Since  the  night  of  the  concert  he 
had  detected  a  change.  She  seemed  to  have  drawn  about  her, 
more  closely  than  ever,  her  delicate,  impervious  mantle  of 
reserve. 

Altogether  it  was  not  a  happy  fortnight  for  Derek;  though 
the  sun  of  May  shone  clear  and  his  lungs  were  improving 
steadily;  though  he  worked  with  Mark  in  the  studio  now;  and 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  371 

together,  they  tilted  at  windmills  on  behalf  of  hardly  used 
officers  and  men.  The  first  blissful  sense  of  having  slipped  into 
a  backwater  was  deserting  him.  Even  in  a  backwater  there  is 
scope  for  passion  and  effort  and  tragedy.  Though  a  man's 
body  be  thrust  out  of  the  arena,  there  can  be  no  escape  from 
the  inexorable  urge  of  life.  Fate,  that  had  forgotten  him, 
seemed  astir  again ;  casting  her  shadow  on  before. 

And  on  the  8th  came  an  awful  reverberation  from  the  outer 
world  of  War  —  the  cold-blooded  sinking  of  the  Lusitania  — 

On  the  loth,  Karl  reappeared,  with  fiddle  and  suitcase,  and 
gave  them  a  musical  evening  of  the  first  order.  Gabrielle  played 
for  him  untiringly;  and  it  was  easily  seen  that  the  good  fellow 
was  in  the  seventh  heaven. 

"Karl  smitten  too!"  thought  Derek,  with  a  pang  of  fellow- 
feeling.  "Better  for  him,  perhaps,  if  she'd  stuck  to  her 
prejudice." 

But  Karl  took  no  such  view  of  the  matter.  He  had  loved  so 
long  unrequited,  that  he  could  drink  his  unexpected  cup  of 
happiness  without  losing  his  head.  Only  when  she  asked  for 
his  '  Serenade,'  and  sat  entranced  while  he  played  it,  did  a  pass 
ing  madness  of  hope  take  hold  of  him:  and  afterwards,  when  the 
party  adjourned  on  to  the  moonlit  terrace,  he  deliberately  took 
possession  of  her,  deliberately  manoeuvred  a  partial  isolation 
from  the  rest.  The  spell  of  his  music  was  still  upon  her,  as  her 
first  words  proved. 

"Your  melody  haunts  one,"  she  said,  "like  a  voice,  pleading 
—  pleading  — 

"That's  the  idea,"  he  answered,  in  a  low  tone. 

"Has  your  friend  written  other  things?" 

"Not  many.     Nothing  as  good  as  that." 

"But  he  ought  to  write  more.  And  he  ought  to  publish.  Is 
he  —  German?  His  music  suggests  it." 

"He  is  half  German  —  like  myself." 

She  smiled  on  him  very  kindly.  "And  the  right  sort  —  like 
yourself  ?  Do  you  know  him  intimately  ?  I  am  interested." 

A  pause.  Then  Karl  looked  very  straight  at  her.  "I  have 
known  him  intimately  —  since  the  moment  he  was  born." 


372  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Mr.  Schonberg!"  She  caught  her  breath.  "But  how  won 
derful  !  And  why  make  this  mystery  —  hiding  your  light  under 
a  bushel?" 

"Only  this  light,"  he  said,  his  eyes  on  her  face:  "for  a  reason 
not  every  one  would  understand.  The  '  Serenade '  came  to  me 
from  Some  One  Else.  I  had  never  played  it  to  any  one  till  that 
night.  Fate  sent  me  a  chance  —  and  I  could  not  resist — " 
His  gaze,  and  the  catch  in  his  voice  enlightened  her. 

"No  —  no.  Not  that,"  she  murmured,  pained  and  over 
whelmed. 

"But  it  is  that,"  he  assured  her  gravely.  "It  has  never  been 
anything  else  —  all  these  years.  There  was  a  time  —  I  hoped. 
But  now  —  I  suppose  — ?  " 

He  broke  off  on  a  questioning  note;  and  she  shook  her  head, 
looking  away  from  him  over  a  blurred  vision  of  pine  tops,  pearl- 
grey  and  black  beneath  an  unclouded  moon. 

"Oh,  but  I'm  sorry.  Things  were  so  pleasant.  I  felt  I  had 
been  unjust  to  you.  I  was  trying  to  atone —  And  this  — 
upsets  everything  — 

"I  hope  not.  For  me  —  it  glorifies  everything.  And  for 
you  —  why  should  it  make  any  difference,  except  — 

"Except  —  that  we  have  become  friends,"  she  said,  genuinely 
moved;  and  no  one  being  near  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

He  held  it  in  a  close,  reverent  clasp.  The  German  in  him 
was  tempted  to  stoop  and  touch  it  with  his  lips;  but  his  English 
instincts  and  training  jibbed  at  the  least  hint  of  the  theatrical. 
Tightening  his  hold  a  little,  he  answered  quietly:  "To  hear  you 
say  that  is,  for  me,  the  second  best  thing  in  the  world.  The 
most  I  could  hope  for  with  my  unlucky  name  and  —  Van  in 
the  field." 

Their  hands  fell  apart.  Mark  and  Sheila  were  coming  to 
wards  them. 

Next  morning,  before  he  left,  Derek  asked  him  unconcernedly: 
"Has  Van  been  to  Avonleigh  much  this  fortnight?  We  haven't 
had  a  sight  of  him." 

And  Karl  said:  "No  more  have  we.    He  gets  a  Town  fit, 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  373 

now  and  then;  especially  this  time  of  year.  Even  with  a  war 
on  and  no  social  functions,  the  season  is  sacred  for  Van!" 

That  was  all;  and  Derek  thought:  ''He's  a  fool,  and  worse, 
shilly-shallying  with  a  splendid  woman,  simply  on  account  of 
that  child.  Or  was  there  some  sort  of  clash?  Looked  rather 
like  it—  " 

But  a  note  from  Van  himself  extinguished  that  dim  hope, 
before  the  week  was  out. 

DEAR  OLD  D.  [he  wrote], — 

How  wags  the  world  with  you?  London  keeps  a  cheery  face  on, 
in  spite  of  things  going  slow  out  there.  One  way  and  another  I've 
been  tied  by  the  leg;  and  petrol  restrictions  are  the  devil.  But  it's 
high  time  I  came  your  way  again.  I  must  work  some  business  at 
Avonleigh  next  week-end!  Has  Miss  de  Vigne  so  much  as  noticed 
my  absence  ?  And  have  you  said  anything  yet  to  any  one  about  that 
superfluous  kid?  Or  are  you  shirking?  Love  to  the  lot  of  you — 
except  the  kid.  Hope  I  manage  Saturday. 

Yours  (with  a  brotherly  embrace) 

VAN 

P.  S.  —  Do  play  up,  old  chap.  You  are  Forsyth's  pal.  It's 
easier  for  you  —  and  I'm  keen. 

That  note  did  more  than  extinguish  hope.  It  spurred  Derek 
to  self-reproach  and  prompt  action.  His  lurking  annoyance 
gave  place  to  an  almost  fatherly  concern  for  the  brother  who 
knew  nothing  of  obstacles,  or  how  to  fight  them.  Somehow, 
these  days,  he  felt  years  older  than  Van;  and  that  letter,  with 
its  rare  under-note  of  eagerness  and  uncertainty,  increased  the 
sensation.  It  did  not  sound  as  if  Van  were  hanging  back; 
but  as  if  he  really  cared  and  felt  uncertain  of  his  chances  — 
a  phenomenon  of  the  first  order!  That  tentative  question 
about  Miss  de  Vigne  was  so  unlike  him  —  and  very  difficult 
to  answer.  Since  the  concert,  she  had  scarcely  spoken  of 
him,  except  when  his  name  happened  to  crop  up;  and  Derek 
was  too  ignorant  of  women  to  have  any  idea  what  that  might 
bode. 

For  a  time  the  child  had  not  appeared  so  often,  but  this  last 


374  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

week  it  had  come  nearly  every  day.  In  a  way  that  made  it 
easier  to  speak;  though  it  did  not  make  him  the  less  reluctant. 
Besides,  he  had  grown  rather  fond  of  the  creature.  He  had 
made  shy  overtures  to  it;  and  once  —  when  only  Anne-Marie 
was  by  —  he  had  boldly  taken  it  in  his  arms.  Since  then,  it 
had  kicked  and  gurgled  at  sight  of  him,  and  he  had  felt  absurdly 
pleased.  It  was  the  hidden  streak  of  the  woman  in  him  —  a 
streak  that,  in  natures  inherently  masculine,  creates  the  pick  of 
men.  However  —  since  the  thing  must  be  done,  no  time  like 
the  present. 

On  the  terrace,  after  breakfast,  the  baby-carriage  was  con 
veniently  in  evidence;  and  when  Mark  joined  him  for  a  smoke, 
before  they  tackled  their  correspondence,  Derek  was  ready  for 
the  plunge. 

For  a  time  they  talked  War  news,  sitting  and  smoking  on  the 
balustrade  in  full  sunshine. 

Then  —  while  Derek  wras  fumbling  for  the  right  word  —  the 
perambulator  reappeared  at  the  far  end  of  the  terrace.  The 
hood  was  down;  the  child  sitting  up  bareheaded,  hugging  a 
woolly  rabbit  with  abnormal  ears.  Gabrielle,  coming  up  from 
the  wood  with  a  party  of  men,  ran  to  welcome  the  creature. 
The  men  shouted  friendly  'Cheeros'  and  passed  on  into 
the  house;  while  Gabrielle  leaned  over  the  perambulator 
and  made  much  of  the  child.  It  was  a  charming  picture; 
one  that  obviously  gave  Derek  his  cue.  But  it  was  Mark  who 
spoke  first. 

"  Coming  on  finely  —  eh?  —  our  fragment  of  France." 

"Yes  —  he's  a  jolly  little  chap." 

The  sympathetic  note  in  Mark's  voice  wras  disconcerting; 
and  before  he  had  found  the  right  word,  Mark  went  on:  "I  be 
lieve  he  gave  your  very  correct  brother  rather  a  shock  ?  Sheila 
happened  to  be  at  her  window  that  morning,  when  he  was  con 
fronted  with  young  Robin  and  the  infant.  His  face  must  have 
been  worth  seeing!  And  when  Gay  appeared,  Sheila  says  there 
was  something  in  the  nature  of  a  scene.  As  he  hasn't  turned 
up  since,  I'm  wondering  if  he's  nursing  his  injuries.  Have  you 
heard?" 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  375 

"When  Mark  talked  like  that,  Derek  was  apt  to  feel  prickly; 
and  the  sensation  at  this  moment  was  a  distinct  advantage. 

"I  heard  this  morning,"  he  said,  ignoring  flippant  specula 
tions.  "He's  been  busy  lately,  but  he  hopes  to  come  on 
Saturday." 

"And  'win  or  lose  it  all'?"  Mark  enquired,  unabashed. 
Between  ourselves,  old  man,  I  was  rather  hoping  the  pion- 
piou  might  have  choked  him  off." 

"And  between  ourselves,"  retorted  Derek,  with  a  kindling 
eye,  "your  attitude  to  Van  strikes  me  as  unjust  and  lopsided, 
which  it's  not  your  nature  to  be.  If  he  has  objections  on 
that  score,  they're  natural  enough.  It's  charming  of  Miss 
de  Vigne  to  take  the  child  under  her  wing;  but  —  well  —  I 
should  have  thought  —  you  might  have  given  her  a  hint  —  or 
Sheila  — 

Mark  shook  his  head.  "  Sheila  agrees  with  me  that  the  infant 
may  be  doing  Gay  a  good  turn!" 

Derek  rose  impatiently.  "I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  her. 
And  you  both  seem  to  ignore  the  fact  that  Miss  de  Vigne  may 
—  care.  You  must  admit  it's  a  delicate  subject  for  him  to 
tackle.  And  if  no  one  gives  her  a  hint,  she  may  stand  to  lose  — 
what  she  most  values,  simply  through  not  realizing  — " 

"Oh,  clear  out!  Why  not  tell  her  yourself  if  you're  so  dead 
certain  and  so  keen?" 

Mark  also  swung  himself  up,  and  for  a  moment  they  con 
fronted  each  other  in  a  sort  of  amicable  defiance.  The  clash 
of  their  mutual  honesty  was  apt  to  produce  these  intermittent 
storms.  Yet,  through  it  all,  their  great  friendship  remained  un 
ruffled.  It  was  founded  on  that  very  honesty. 

Derek  drew  in  his  lip  and  was  silent,  considering  Mark's 
unwelcome  proposition.  Then:  "It's  a  woman's  job,"  he 
urged.  "It  would  come  better  from  Sheila." 

But  Mark  was  adamant.  "It  would  worry  her.  And  I 
won't  have  her  worried.  Besides,"  he  added  with  a  twinkle, 
"I  really  do  think  it's  your  job!  You're  partial  to  Van.  We 
aren't.  And  I'm  damned  if  I'll  pretend  we  are."  He  glanced 
at  his  watch.  "Time  we  were  getting  to  work.  But  —  there's 


376  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

your  chance  to  hand.    I  give  you  half  an  hour  to  pull  it 
through."    His  hand  came  down  on  Derek's  shoulder.     "  Don't 
take  my  ravings  amiss,  old  man.     You're  the  best  brother  in 
creation.    And  if  you  can  prove  their  hearts  are  involved  — 
well,  we  won't  refuse  them  our  blessing!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

//  is  in  our  past  that  Destiny  finds  all  her  weapons,  her  vestments,  her  jewels. 

MAETERLINCK 

The  real  revelations  are  the  unconscious  ones. 

E.  ROBINS 

DEREK,  left  alone,  stood  irresolute  for  several  minutes,  taking 
prodigious  pulls  at  his  pipe,  as  if  the  right  word,  and  the  courage 
to  speak  it,  could  be  drawn  from  that  magic  bowl.  Also,  at 
difficult  moments,  his  breathing  still  troubled  him  and  induced 
a  horrid  fear  that  his  voice  might  fail  him  at  some  critical 
juncture.  He  was  thinking:  "In  a  way,  Mark's  right.  It  is 
my  job.  She's  Jacko's  sister.  Van's  my  brother.  Why  the 
dickens  am  I  such  a  tongue-tied  fool?" 

And,  away  at  the  end  of  the  terrace,  Gabrielle  was  holding 
the  rabbit  high  in  air,  crooning  some  French  nursery  ditty. 
Then  with  a  swift  downward  rush,  with  laughter  and  kisses 
and  small  shrieks  of  glee,  Bunny  came  home  to  roost,  only  to 
escape  afresh  and  repeat  the  thrilling  game.  To  Derek,  watch 
ing  them,  the  girl  was  a  vision  of  motherhood  incarnate.  Men, 
he  reflected,  can  neither  understand  these  things  nor  trespass 
on  them.  And  in  his  own  case  —  if  Mark  only  knew  —  if  he 
so  much  as  guessed  —  he  would  never  have  set  him  such  a 
hard  row  to  hoe  — 

At  this  point  a  break  in  the  game  made  Gabrielle  aware  of 
him:  and  she  beckoned  with  the  Bunny,  inviting  him  to  come 
and  share  the  fun. 

"She's  simply  asking  for  it!"  thought  Derek,  fortifying  him 
self  with  a  flick  of  humour;  and  squaring  his  shoulders,  he  went 
forward  valiantly,  trying  to  walk  as  if  there  were  no  such  thing 
as  a  lame  hip  joint  in  the  world. 

He  succeeded  so  well  that  she  greeted  him  with  applause. 


378  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Splendid!  Almost  like  your  old  self.  And  isn't  Le  Petit 
splendid  too,  this  morning?  Please  admire!" 

She  wagged  Bunny's  ears  at  the  creature;  and  Derek  gravely 
contributed  a  forefinger,  that  was  seized  and  turned  to  practical 
account. 

"Take  care!  He  can  bite,"  warned  Gabrielle,  with  a  touch 
of  mother  pride  in  the  phenomenon,  that  went  to  Derek's 
heart. 

"I'll  take  my  chance,"  he  said,  with  his  eyes  on  the  child, 
The  vigorous  suction  of  its  soft  warm  lips  sent  a  queer  thrill  up 
his  arm. 

"Time  for  walk  and  sleep,"  Gabrielle  interposed,  in  her 
practical  vein.  "He  doesn't  look  much  like  sleep,  the  villain; 
but  we'll  see." 

The  villain  was  laid  flat  with  gentle  admonitions;  Bunny 
arranged  in  his  arms  and  the  white  awning  adjusted.  Then 
she  leaned  over  him,  murmuring  French  love-words  between 
her  kisses.  It  was  all  desperately  disconcerting  to  one  who 
saw  woman  as  pre-eminently  the  mother,  who  was  most  sus 
ceptible  to  her  in  that  manifestation.  And  —  as  Anne-Marie 
wheeled  her  charge  away  —  he  was  still  further  disconcerted  by 
a  tacit  appeal  from  Gabrielle  herself. 

"You  wouldn't  believe  the  joy  that  stray  atom  is  to  me," 
she  said  in  a  tone  that  presupposed  his  sympathy. 

"I  can  believe  it,"  he  answered  truthfully.     "Children  are 

—  wonderful  things  — '      Then  he  spurred  his  wraning  courage 
and  went  straight  to  the  point.     "How  long  —  do  you  think  of 
keeping  him  —  this  way  —  as  if  he  was  your  own?    It's  ten  to 
one  against  Mums  ever  tracing  his  parents." 

"Yes  —  we  realize  that.     It's  just  to  satisfy  one's  conscience 

—  But  I'm  beginning  to  believe  Fate  means  to  let  me  keep  my 
little  morsel  of  la  belle  France — and  rear  him  to  be  worthy  of  her 
in  her  agony —  'broke  to  every  known  mischance,  lifted  over 
all'  —  France,  as  she  is  to-day." 

The  thrill  in  her  low  tone  and  the  soft  shining  of  her  wonder 
ful  eyes  made  the  hapless  Derek  shrink  more  than  ever  from  the 
clumsy  intrusion  of  things  pedestrian.  And  Gabrielle,  arrested 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  379 

by  his  lack  of  response,  turned  to  him  with  a  humorous  lift  of 
her  brows. 

"But  —  it  is  all  so  un-English!  You  are  thinking  me  a 
sentimental  fool?" 

At  that  Derek  blinked  a  little  as  if  a  strong  light  had  been 
flashed  in  his  eyes. 

"I  would  never  connect  either  of  those  words  —  with  you," 
he  said  slowly.  "It's  a  woman's  affair.  Not  for  a  man  to 
meddle  and  muddle  with.  But  — 

"But—?"  she  challenged  him  smiling;  "I  felt  that  'but'  in 
the  air!  Believe  me,  I  realize  it's  not  quite  so  simple  as  it 
seems.  I  can  see  —  other  sides  to  it;  and  —  honestly,  I  have 
wanted  to  know  what  you  —  your  opinion  — " 

Her  delicate  flattery  warmed  his  heart.  "I  warn  you,"  he 
said,  "it  won't  square  with  your  wishes.  Do  you  still  want  it? " 

"Of  course  —  more  than  ever.  You  have  judgment.  And 
it's  such  a  rare  quality:  a  steady  light  shining  through  the  fog 
of  our  confused  thoughts  and  feelings.  Mine  are  extra  confused 
just  now.  So  please  don't  hide  your  light  under  a  bushel!  You 
believe  —  to  adopt  Le  Petit  —  would  be  a  mistake?  " 

"A  grave  mistake." 

"In  what  way?    For  whom?" 

"For  yourself  —  certainly.     For  the  child,  as  likely  as  not." 

He  moved  on,  in  speaking,  and  she  moved  with  htm.  He 
had  a  seat  in  mind  at  a  turning  down  into  the  wood.  Having 
started,  he  must  pull  it  through  somehow:  and  an  interruption 
would  extinguish  him  altogether. 

"In  the  first  place,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "you  have 
pretty  clear  proof  that  he  is  not  of  your  own  class?" 

She  nodded.  "Most  likely  of  the  bourgeoisie  —  the  back 
bone  of  France." 

"True  —  in  France,  reared  in  their  own  element.  All  plants 
won't  thrive  in  all  soils.  Besides  —  there  is  the  personal  con 
sideration.  And  you  overlook  it  at  your  peril.  Your  feeling 
for  the  child,  now,  is  the  natural,  beautiful  mother  tenderness 
for  anything  young  and  weak.  When  he  is  no  longer  a  baby, 
that  might  change.  You  would  find,  perhaps,  you  had  made 


380  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

him  love  you  and  had  little  or  nothing  to  give  him  in  return. 
It  would  be  truer  kindness  —  don't  you  think?  —  not  to  waken 
a  craving  you  could  never  really  satisfy?  " 

She  sighed.  "Your  light  penetrates  to  the  roots  of 
things." 

"That  relation  lies  at  the  roots  of  things,"  he  said  quietly. 
"To  some  men  it  is  the  most  vital  of  all.  And  your  Petit  will 
grow  into  a  Frenchman  —  remember.  Besides,  there  are  other 
considerations  —  the  possible  .  .  .  misjudgment  of  ...  your 
own  world." 

"No  one  misjudges  me  here  —  except  .  .  .  perhaps  .  .  .  your 
brother—" 

A  slow  blush  crept  into  her  cheek;  and  Derek  thought:  "I 
wasn't  mistaken.  She  cares."  The  conviction  gave  him  cour 
age  to  take  the  cue  she  had  unwittingly  given  him. 

"You're  wrong  there  —  I  am  sure  of  it.  But  —  doesn't  his 
feeling  about  things  —  count  for  something?" 

She  compressed  her  lips.  "I  don't  really  know  what  his 
feeling  amounts  to.  A  good  deal  of  it,  I  suspect,  is  simply 
an  echo  of  the  world's  view:  therefore  unworthy  of  serious 
consideration." 

"Rather  a  sweeping  conclusion.  The  world  has  to  be 
reckoned  with;  and  it  often  has  a  common-sensible  way  of 
hitting  the  nail  on  the  head." 

"That  —  from  you?"  She  flashed  round  on  him;  and  sheer 
surprise  blinded  him  to  the  implied  compliment. 

"From  me,  it  is  more  worth  considering  than  —  say  —  from 
Van?" 

"Of  course.     From  you  it  is  a  phenomenon!" 

This  time  his  pleasure  was  evident.  "Certainly  I've  been 
up  against  the  world's  view  ever  since  I  was  old  enough  to  recog 
nize  it." 

"And  now  —  you  are  converted?"  She  questioned  with 
sceptical  eyebrows.  "You  think  you  made  a  mistake?" 

"I  have  made  more  mistakes,  of  all  sorts,"  he  answered 
gravely,  "than  I  care  to  reckon  up.  Not  always  —  of  my  own 
free  will." 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  381 

As  he  happened  to  be  studying  the  gravel  path,  he  failed  to 
see  the  quickened  interest  in  her  eyes.  "Does  he  recognize," 
she  thought,  "the  biggest  one  of  all?" 

But  she  dared  not  approach  that  subject.  So  she  said  nothing, 
and  he  went  on:  "The  trouble  with  me  is  —  I've  an  incurable 
habit  of  putting  my  finger  into  other  people's  pies!" 

"Of  helping  them,  in  fact!  There  was  a  sailor  boy  once,  in  a 
train." 

"You  remember  that?" 

"But  of  course.  It  was  our  first  meeting.  And  it  made  a 
deep  impression.  I  believe  it  prompted  my  burst  of  confidence." 

Derek  smiled  thoughtfully  at  the  recollection,  and  took  a  pull 
at  his  pipe.  "That  affair  was  rudimentary.  A  mere  matter 
of  cash.  The  complications  begin  when  you  rashly  thrust  a 
finger  into  some  one  else's  life.  And  I've  been  wondering  if  you 
quite  realize  that,  in  such  cases,  one  often  does  more  harm  than 
good,  with  the  best  intentions  in  the  world.  I'm  speaking," 
he  added  gravely,  "  from  bitter  personal  experience.  Lois  — 

A  catch  in  his  throat  checked  him;  and  her  heart  gave  a  sud 
den  leap.  "  You  mean  — ?  " 

"I  mean  —  she  —  the  whole  thing  —  was  a  tragic  case  in 
point." 

That  astonishing  confession  sent  a  thrill  through  her.  But 
—  it  did  not  suffice.  Now  that  he  had  broken  the  silence,  she 
must  know  more. 

"I  don't  —  quite  understand,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone.  "I 
never  did  understand." 

"I  knew  that."  His  voice  was  quiet  as  her  own.  It  was  as 
if  they  had  passed  into  a  church.  "Jack  didn't  either.  It  was 
part  of  what  —  one  had  to  accept." 

"Had  to?"  she  queried,  lower  still. 

New  light  was  dawning  on  her,  startlingly  illuminating  the 
secret  places  of  her  heart.  She  could  feel  that  something  was 
impelling  him  to  unlock  his  closed  doors;  and  she  feared  to 
arrest  that  impulse  by  a  word  or  a  look  too  much. 

"Yes  —  had  to,"  he  repeated.  They  had  reached  the  seat 
now,  and  he  was  thankful.  He  had  physical  need  of  it. 


382  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Shall  we  sit?"  he  said.  "I  would  like  — to  try  and  tell 
you.  It  might  help  you  —  to  see  what  I  mean." 

They  sat;  and  he  so  established  himself,  in  the  corner  of  the 
bench,  that  her  profile  came  in  his  direct  line  of  vision.  It  did 
not  precisely  make  things  easier;  but  the  temptation  mastered 
him.  "Fate  —  my  arch  enemy,"  he  went  on,  "and  .  .  .  the 
troublesome  propensity  I  spoke  of,  pretty  well  threw  that  poor 
child  into  my  arms.  She  was  ill  —  frightened  —  in  desperate 
straits — " 

A  long  pause.  Then  —  in  words  the  more  impressive  be 
cause  they  were  few  and  direct  —  he  told  her  all.  There  were 
details  that  he  had  instinctively  kept  back  from  his  father. 
From  her  he  kept  back  nothing.  He  knew  she  had  loved  Lois 
and  would  be  gentle  in  her  judgment.  Also  his  sure  instinct 
told  him  that  his  confidence,  at  this  moment,  would  add  a 
weight  to  his  advice  which  no  mere  argument  could  do. 

And  Gabrielle,  looking  out  over  the  pine  tops,  while  he  — 
the  silent  one  —  talked  and  talked,  saw,  with  enlightened  eyes, 
the  whole  pitiful  tragedy:  saw,  too,  with  a  stab  of  pain,  how 
utterly  she  had  misjudged  him  —  she,  who  prided  herself  on 
being  something  of  a  psychologist.  She  had  seen  him  simply 
succumbing  to  a  pretty  face,  or  the  mere  need  of  a  wife:  and  all 
the  while  he  had  been  in  the  toils;  doing  everything  he  could  — 
with  a  man's  pathetic  ignorance  —  for  that  unhappy  child, 
whose  adoration  of  him  she  vividly  remembered.  That  little 
scene  in  the  veranda  was  clear  as  day  to  her  now.  So  were 
a  good  many  other  things  — 

And  through  it  all  she  scarcely  spoke.  She  knew  her  silence 
would  not  be  misunderstood.  Only  once  he  directly  appealed 
to  her.  "It  was  a  distracting  —  a  cruel  position  —  for  both  of 
us.  But  —  what  else  could  a  man  do?  She  was  so  helpless  — 
so  lost  and  strayed." 

"Oh,  how  well  I  understand,"  murmured  Gabrielle.  "And 
was  that  chiefly  —  why  —  ?  " 

"Altogether  why.  It  seemed  to  me  I  could  ease  things  for 
her,  save  her,  perhaps,  from  some  desperate  folly.  But  there 
you  are  —  the  facts,  the  unseen  boundaries  of  life  have  the  last 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  383 

word,  in  spite  of  us.  I  did  all  a  fool  man  could  think  of.  But 
—  I  couldn't  give  her  the  one  thing  she  wanted.  So  —  I 
couldn't  make  her  happy,  which  —  in  my  arrogance,  I  set  out 
to  do.  When  the  War  came,  she  saw  how  it  was  tugging  at  me. 
And  because  I  wouldn't  leave  her,  she  bolted  on  impulse  —  left 
me—" 

Gabrielle  drew  a  sharp  breath.     "Altogether?" 

"No.  She  went  to  Victoria.  She  had  faith  in  you.  Never 
forgot  your  kindness  —  any  more  than  I  did.  But  —  you  were 
gone — " 

"  Oh,  poor  lamb !    And  she  had  to  come  back?  " 

"I  had  to  fetch  her.  She  was  terribly  ill.  In  fact  —  it 
killed  her  —  that  and  —  the  child." 

Gabrielle  could  not  speak.    Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

Derek's  pipe  had  gone  out.  He  pocketed  it;  cleared  his 
throat  and  said  quietly:  "You  see  —  the  connection?" 

She  started.  She  had  seen  no  connection.  She  had  only 
seen  the  true  Derek,  unveiling  his  own  soul  with  a  beautiful  un 
conscious  simplicity,  while  he  supposed  he  was  'clearing  the 
course '  for  Van. 

"You  mustn't  miss  the  point!"  he  urged  with  a  twinkle  of 
humour.  "You  see  —  I  went  outside  my  class  —  ignored  the 
limits,  as  my  father  would  say.  She  was  grateful  and  devoted; 
but  —  we  were  on  different  planes.  With  the  best  will  in  the 
world,  we  could  never  meet.  It  would  be  much  the  same,  in 
another  way,  if  you  reared  that  infant  as  your  own.  The 
chances  are,  all  the  affection  would  be  one-sided  —  the  position 
anomalous;  and  —  when  it  came  to  marrying  — " 

"Yes  —  I  see,"  she  said,  more  to  herself  than  to  him:  and 
Derek,  with  his  eyes  on  her  face,  would  have  given  several  years 
of  his  life  to  know  exactly  what  was  passing  in  her  mind. 

"I  want  you  to  do  more  than  see,"  he  persisted  gently.  "I 
have  told  you  things  I  never  thought  to  tell  any  one,  because  an 
ounce  of  life  is  worth  a  ton  of  theory.  And  —  because  you  are 
Jacko's  sister.  In  fact  .  .  ."he  concluded  with  hiSiWhimsical 
smile  —  "I'm  doing  it  again!" 

"Doing  what?" 


384  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Interfering,  clumsily  enough  —  with  the  best  of  motives; 
though  I  ought  to  know,  by  now,  that  it's  pretty  well  useless." 

"It  shan't  be  useless  —  on  this  occasion." 

The  fervour  in  her  low  tone  surprised  him.  "Thank  you," 
he  said;  and  his  eyes  met  hers  full  for  the  first  time  since  he  had 
begun  to  speak  of  intimate  things. 

"Thank  you,  for  making  me  see  —  for  opening  my  eyes — " 
She  checked  herself  and  drew  in  her  lips.  "You  mean  — ?" 

"I  mean  —  quit  the  idea  of  a  personal  link.  You  can  play 
Providence  to  your  Petit  just  as  well  without  it.  Let  his  foster 
mother  be  French.  Why  not  Mums'  pet  refugee,  Mme.  Le- 
marne.  She  lost  both  her  children  in  that  first  awful  flight. 
Be  responsible,  if  you  will,  for  the  costs,  his  education,  and  so 
on.  But  that  little  woman  would  probably  give  him  the  best 
possible  substitute  for  a  mother's  love — " 

"And  I  —  can  be  his  marraine?  But  what  a  happy  idea! 
How  splendidly  you  have  thought  it  all  out." 

"I  didn't  think.    It  only  just  occurred  to  me." 

"Oh,  you  are  so  delightfully  British,"  she  murmured,  a  very 
soft  light  in  her  eyes.  "Advertising  your  failures  and  trying 
to  camouflage  your  achievements!"  She  hesitated.  An  un 
comfortable  doubt  invaded  her  mind. 

"All  this  is  —  your  own  honest  opinion?  You  are  not  speak 
ing  with  —  some  one  else  at  the  back  of  your  mind?  " 

"I  have  spoken  my  honest  opinion.  But  I  won't  deny  there 
is  some  one  else  at  the  back  of  my  mind,"  said  truthful  Derek 
in  a  level  tone;  for  the  words  were  hard  to  bring  out.  "It's 
natural  —  isn't  it?  I  know  him  so  well.  I  know  the  kind  of 
things  that  grate  on  him :  —  in  this  case,  surely  —  not  without 
reason.  Hasn't  he  —  some  shadow  of  right  — ?" 

"None  —  that  I  have  given  him,"  she  answered,  her  colour 
rising,  her  beautiful  frankness  of  look  and  tone  clean  gone. 

"Perhaps  —  he  hopes,"  Derek  ventured,  determined  to  say 
all,  while  the  chance  was  his.  "Anyhow  —  he  is  coming  on 
Friday.  He  says  —  petrol  restrictions,  and  —  other  things 
have  been  keeping  him  in  town  — 

"He  shall  not  find  my  piou-piou  on  the  terrace,"  she  said 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  385 

with  her  small,  baffling  smile.  "It  would  be  more  than  unkind 
to  upset  him  so  again.  As  for  your  honest  opinion ...  I  promise 
to  consider  it  seriously  .  .  .  because  it  is  yours." 

And  with  that  enigmatic  assurance  he  had  to  rest  content. 
He  could  see  that  his  news  perturbed  her;  but  whether  that 
fact  augured  well  for  Van,  events  alone  could  prove.  His  half- 
hour  was  nearly  up;  and  he  became  aware  of  a  sharp  physical 
reaction,  that  warned  him  he  was  still  very  far  from  being  him 
self  again. 

On  their  way  back  to  the  house  he  limped  badly;  and  she 
remarked  on  it,  with  concern. 

"You  walked  splendidly  along  the  terrace  —  just  now." 
"I  can  do  it  in  spurts,"  he  said.     "Can't  keep  it  up." 
"Never  mind  —  some  day!"   she  consoled    him  with  the 
mother  note  in  her  voice. 

He  sighed  and  smiled.  The  future  did  not  look  very  alluring 
at  that  moment  —  even  if  it  brought  sound  lungs  and  the 
capacity  to  walk  twenty  miles  again.  .  .  . 

That  afternoon  he  wrote  to  Van.  "I  have  spoken  myself 
to  Miss  de  Vigne.  She  sees  the  mistake  of  the  adoption  idea. 
I  don't  think  she  will  have  the  child  up  here  quite  so  much. 
But  I  couldn't  press  that  point.  Hope  you  manage  Friday, 
and  —  good  luck  to  you!" 

Nothing  further  could  he  bring  himself  to  say.  That  Van 
would  get  what  he  wanted  was,  to  him,  inevitable  as  any  law 
of  Nature;  and  for  himself  —  reaction  had  been  more  than 
physical.  Unauthorized  sensations  could  no  longer  be  ignored: 
and  his  full  awakening  —  as  with  all  strong,  controlled  natures 
—  was  passionate,  overwhelming.  He,  who  was  so  diffident 
and  so  critical  as  to  fancy  himself  incapable,  almost,  of  the 
'one  illogical  adventure,'  was  now  to  discover  that  it  is  just 
the  almost  incapable  who  sink  deepest,  or  soar  highest  when 
their  great  moment  comes.  It  seemed  quite  in  keeping 
with  the  persistent  irony  of  things,  that  his  own  great  moment 
should  not  lift  him  up,  but  cast  him  down;  should  condemn 
him,  as  he  believed,  to  the  barren  life  of  singleness,  which—- 


386  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

in  face  of  this  new  and  commanding  emotion  —  looked  less  in 
viting  than  he  would  have  believed  possible  a  year  ago. 

He  knew  now  that  this  wonderful  thing  had  lain  in  his 
heart  for  weeks,  unrecognized;  partly  because,  from  the  first, 
he  had  connected  her  with  Van;  partly  because  he  was  still  shy 
of  any  emotion  that  involved  the  acute  accentuation  of  the 
self.  But  would  he,  or  no,  nothing  could  save  him  now  from 
an  accentuation  so  acute  that  —  having  cleared  the  course  for 
Van  —  he  was  confounded  by  a  sudden  primitive  uprush  of 
jealousy;  a  fierce  conviction  that  he,  Derek,  had  a  deeper 
wealth  of  love  for  her  in  his  little  finger  than  Van  could  have 
in  his  whole  body.  And  the  chances  he  had  missed,  in  Oxford 
days,  through  mere  shyness  and  lack  of  address — !  The 
chances  he  had  missed  at  Victoria  —  because  of  poor  Lois ! 
Was  it  written  in  the  book  of  Fate  that  his  life  should  be  one 
interminable  tale  of  chances  missed?  If  so  it  was  a  thousand 
pities  he  had  also  missed  his  chance  of  being  gassed  to  death  at 
Loos! 

The  raking  up  of  his  past  threw  into  strong  relief  the  contrast 
between  his  own  travesty  of  a  marriage  and  the  sort  of  thing 
that  was  in  store  for  Van,  who  —  in  spite  of  passing  qualms  — 
would  simply  accept  it  as  his  right.  Certainly  his  answer 
ing  note  was  scarcely  that  of  a  lover  very  much  alive  to  his  own 
un  worthiness. 

PRICELESS  OLD  BEAN, — 

So  you've  done  it  off  your  own  bat.  Played  indeed!  You  deserve  a 
D.C.M.  Anyhow,  I  make  you  free  of  my  humble  and  heartfelt 
thanks  —  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Friday  it  is,  if  I  can  possibly  work  it. 
Put  up  a  plea  that  the  weather  and  the  Goddess  may  prove  kind  — 
and  your  petitioner  will  ever  pray. 

Honestly,  Dirks,  I  am 

Your  very  grateful  brother 

V.  B. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  bird  of  the  air  shall  carry  it;  and  that  which  hath  wings  shall  tell  the  matter. 

SOLOMON 

Two  days  later  came  the  Indian  mail  with  its  unfailing  blue 
envelope  addressed  in  his  father's  scholarly  hand.  It  felt 
thicker  than  usual;  and  Derek,  pocketing  his  treasure,  went 
down  into  the  wood,  where  a  freshly  felled  tree  offered  a  con 
genial  seat  and  brought  a  whiff  of  the  Selkirks  to  his  nostrils. 

There  he  opened  his  envelope  and  discovered  that  its  thick 
ness  was  due  to  an  enclosure  —  a  typed  copy  of  a  letter  from 
Sir  Vyvian  Blount,  and  of  a  paragraph  from  a  popular  paper 
noted  for  its  anti-German  zeal.  With  a  sick  feeling  of  fore 
knowledge,  Derek  scanned  its  contents. 

My  readers  will  hardly  be  surprised  to  learn  that  Dame  Rumour 
has  again  been  buzzing  round  a  certain  historic  place  in  Hampshire, 
which,  it  seems,  has  become  a  lively  centre  of  camouflaged  enemy-alien 
activity.  But  reports  from  that  quarter  have  a  mysterious  way  of 
slipping  into  official  pigeon  holes  —  and  sticking  there!  The  police 
are  growing  angry  and  suspicious.  But  who,  except  the  bamboozled 
public,  cares  a  curse  for  the  police?  Unluckily  the  'noble  lord'  is 
doing  good  work  elsewhere;  and  his  clever  son  seems  to  be  afflicted 
with  the  gentlemanly  departmental  cast  of  mind,  that  would  not  for 
the  world  suspect  a  naturalized  German  brother,  even  if  it  caught  the 
fraternal  hand  emerging  from  its  own  pocket!  He  appears  to  be  in 
timate  with  that  impeccable  patriot  Mr.  S  .  .  .  .  g,  who,  it  is 
whispered,  organized  and  financed  his  fine  Auxiliary  Hospital.  It  is 
certainly  an  unfortunate  fact  that  the  hospital  staff  are  not  all  of 
them  Britons  under  their  skins.  Most  of  the  masseuses  are  Swedes. 
Neutral,  of  course!  We  know  all  about  those  neutrals!  And  sus 
picion  attaches  to  a  neighbouring  house  (ideally  placed  for  signalling) 
inhabited  by  an  innocuous,  elderly  gentleman  and  two  alien  domestics, 
who  have  been  in  charge  since  1913.  There  are  persistent  reports  of 


388  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

concealed  wireless;  but  the  house  seems  to  be  securely  sheltered  from 
Home  Office  alarms.  All  the  same  I  venture  to  predict  we  shall  hear 
more  of  this  trio,  though  possibly  not  of  the  hidden  hand  behind  it 
all.  .  Reports  may  come  and  reports  may  go,  but  the  great  Unim 
peachable,  with  his  exalted  friends,  is  safe  to  go  on  for  ever! 

At  the  end  of  the  second  reading,  Derek's  northern  anger 
blazed  up.  The  blood  drummed  in  his  temples.  The  flimsy 
paper  shook  a  little  in  his  hand.  To  him  —  with  his  deep 
personal  love  and  pride  —  it  was  almost  as  if  his  mother's 
honour  had  been  bespattered  with  mud.  And  Van  was  more 
than  half  responsible  for  it  all  —  Van,  who  aspired  to  win 
Gabrielle  de  Vigne  — ! 

He  almost  shrank,  now,  from  unfolding  the  letter  he  had 
opened  so  eagerly  a  few  minutes  ago;  and  the  thought  flashed 
through  his  mind:  "Good  Heavens!  I  don't  envy  Van,  when 
he  opens  his!" 

MY  DEAREST  BOY  [Lord  Avonleigh  wrote], — 

Read  the  enclosed.  They  speak  for  themselves.  If  Uncle  Vyvian's 
letter  were  not  written  by  my  own  brother,  and  with  evident  reluc 
tance,  I  would  not  credit  a  word  of  it.  I  leave  you  to  imagine  the 
shock  it  has  been  to  us.  By  your  own  feelings  you  can  judge  of 
mine,  which  are  better,  perhaps,  left  unexpressed.  I  recognize  that 
Mother  and  I  must  accept  our  share  of  the  blame.  Our  son  is  — 
what  we  have  made  him. 

As  to  yourself,  I  am  anxious  to  know  how  much  of  this  you  have 
guessed  or  suspected  all  along;  since  it  was  evidently  things  you  said 
—  and  left  unsaid  —  that  made  Uncle  Vyvian  try  and  get  at  the 
truth.  Of  course,  my  dear  boy,  I  respect  the  motive  that  kept  you 
silent.  And  Malcolm  must  have  had  his  suspicions.  I  owe  him  an 
apology.  A  detestable  position.  It  was  naturally  easier  for  Uncle 
Vyvian  to  write  than  for  either  of  you:  and  I  am  thankful  he  has  had 
the  courage  to  deal  me  the  hardest  blow  of  my  life.  As  for  Schonberg, 
I  only  wish  I  could  come  straight  home  and  speak  my  mind  in  person. 
I  fear  I  should  deal  some  shrewd  blows.  He  is  playing  a  low-down 
double  game,  like  a  good  many  others  of  his  unscrupulous  race.  But 
from  what  I  know  of  the  inner  circle,  I  fear  it  would  be  waste  of  time 
and  energy  trying  to  show  him  up.  One  would  never  catch  him  on 
the  nail.  Even  as  I  write,  comes  a  cable  from  Uncle  Vyvian  to  say 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  389 

Burnt  Hill  House  has  been  cleared  —  and  at  his  instigation.  There 
you  are.  I  bitterly  regret  now  that  I  ever  acceded  to  Burlton's 
importunity.  If  I  live  to  come  home,  that  house  shall  be  destroyed. 
I  am  scribbling  this  in  bed.  The  shock  has  thoroughly  upset  me. 
Write  to  me  fully,  Derek,  now  there  is  no  more  need  for  keeping  things 
back.  You  have  the  real  stuff  of  manhood  in  you.  You  were  not 
afraid  of  soiling  your  boy's  dream  with  the  mud  of  actual  life.  And 
your  courage  has  made  you  whole.  I  wish  to  God  you  had  been  my 
firstborn.  Your  loving  father 

AVONLEIGH 

Scarcely  a  direct  mention  of  Van.  So  like  him!  Yet  the 
hurt  to  his  fatherhood,  his  pride  and  trust,  stood  revealed 
through  that  same  studious  avoidance  and  in  the  final  cry  from 
the  heart,  which  distressed  and  uplifted  Derek  in  about  equal 
degrees — so  confused  and  intricate  are  the  boundary  lines 
between  pleasure  and  pain.  But  some  one  might  come  along 
any  moment;  and  there  still  remained  Uncle  Vyvian's  letter  — 
by  far  the  longer  of  the  two. 

Soldier-like,  it  went  straight  to  the  point. 

DEAR  AVONLEIGH, — 

This  letter  is  going  to  be  a  nasty  job  for  both  of  us.  I  would 
rather  depute  my  share  of  it  to  any  one  else  on  earth.  But  things 
are  happening  here  that  you  ought  to  know  of,  and  I  am  the  only 
person  among  those  concerned,  who  can  venture  to  write  you  un 
pleasant  truths  about  your  own  son.  Naturally  I  have  hesitated  — 
too  long,  perhaps.  Facts  were  not  easy  to  get  at.  But  after  reading 
enclosed  paragraph,  I  can  hesitate  no  longer.  I  may  say  I  chiefly 
have  to  thank  Derek  for  giving  me  a  notion  that  something  was  up  in 
that  quarter.  Not  that  he  ever  cast  aspersions  on  his  brother.  He 
has  been  perfectly  loyal  and  straightforward  in  the  matter.  But 
I  saw  he  was  worried  and  drew  my  own  conclusions. 

Followed  a  plain  tale  of  Avonleigh  affairs  —  circumstantial, 
critical,  dispassionate;  —  the  outcome  of  cautious  and  thorough 
investigation.  General  Blount,  in  younger  days,  had  done 
good  work  for  the  Intelligence  Department. 

It  established  the  fact  that  Schonberg  had  originated  the 
hospital  plan;  that  he  was  a  good  deal  more  intimate  with  Van 


390  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

than  their  surface  intercourse  would  lead  one  to  suppose.  Cir 
cumstantial  reports  of  a  wireless  installation  on  Burnt  Hill  had 
decided  the  General  to  take  definite  action  in  the  matter. 
("That  accounts,"  thought  Derek  with  a  sick  feeling  of  disgust, 
"they  got  wind  of  it.")  He  indulged  in  no  vague  accusations, 
no  unproven  statements,  which  made  his  damning  evidence  the 
more  impressive. 

But  I  feel  bound  to  add  [he  concluded],  in  common  fairness  to 
Van,  that  I  imply  no  disloyalty  on  his  part;  simply  inborn  laziness  — 
mental  and  moral;  possible  financial  accommodations  and  an  amaz 
ing  lack  of  perception  —  the  devil's  staunchest  ally.  If  he  ever  had 
qualms  he  probably  treated  them  with  a  liver  pill !  Forgive  my  plain 
speaking.  How  far  you  will  be  able  to  forgive  the  cause  of  it,  I  find 
it  a  hard  matter  to  guess. 

Derek  also  found  it  a  'stiff  proposition';  and  he  did  not  envy 
Van  the  prospect  of  confronting  his  father  face  to  face.  By  the 
inflexible  streak  in  himself,  he  knew  that  Lord  Avonleigh's 
anger  would  be  of  the  cold  intellectual  order  that  neither  ex 
plodes  nor  evaporates.  A  year  hence  he  would  probably  be  no 
nearer  forgiveness  than  at  the  present  moment.  And  Derek 
understood  — 

Though  he  could  think  of  it  all,  by  now,  with  a  cooler 
brain,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  write.  The  first  word 
must  come  from  Van.  Would  he  —  could  he  —  have  the 
face  to  come  down  to-morrow  and  press  his  suit  with  Miss 
de  Vigne  — ? 

At  that  point  he  became  aware  of  a  woman's  figure  leaning 
over  the  terrace  balustrade;  he  looked  up  quickly;  his  heart 
knocking  unevenly  against  his  ribs.  It  was  Honor  Lenox;  and 
his  sharp  revulsion  of  feeling  was  tinged  with  relief. 

"This  won't  do,"  he  thought  sternly,  as  Honor  called  out: 
" There  you  are,  Derek!  We'd  lost  you.  Time  for  massage." 

His  hip  and  back  were  still  treated  with  electricity;  and  as  a 
rule  he  found  it  both  soothing  and  stimulating.  But  this  new 
imperious  emotion  startlingiy  intensified  his  whole  gamut  of 
sensation;  and  to-day  he  was  further  unstrung  by  the  shock  of 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  391 

his  father's  letter;  the  pain  of  his  smouldering  wrath  with  Van. 
To-day  the  pressure  of  those  tingling  needles  simply  maddened 
him.  Their  soft,  relentless  probing  set  his  nerves  on  edge. 
Only  by  setting  his  teeth  could  he  endure  it  without  shrinking. 
Once  he  came  near  seizing  the  detested  thing  and  thrusting  it 
from  him  — 

Very  soon  Honor's  practised  eye  discerned  that  something 
was  wrong.  She  switched  off  the  battery;  and  he  let  out  an 
irrepressible  sigh  of  relief. 

"Is  it  upsetting  you?    What's  the  matter,  Derek?"  \ 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  gruffly.  "I  don't  seem  able  to  stand 
it  this  morning.  Goon  —  if  you  must.  Never  mind  me !" 

She  regarded  him  anxiously.  "No  use  going  on  —  if  you 
feel  like  that.  Just  lie  quiet." 

"Thanks  very  much."  She  put  away  the  hateful  thing, 
drew  the  coverlet  over  him  and  went  quietly  out,  leaving  him 
alone  in  the  sun-filled  ward.  He  felt  an  ungracious  beast,  letting 
her  go  without  a  word. 

Five  minutes  later,  Sheila  came  in  and  stood  by  his  bed,  a 
wrinkle  of  distress  between  her  brows.  He  thought  how 
charming  she  looked  like  that;  and  the  promise  of  motherhood 
seemed  to  have  lit  a  new  light  in  her  eyes.  All  the  same  he 
wished  to  goodness  they  would  leave  him  alone. 

"Derek,  dear  —  are  you  feeling  ill?"  she  asked.  "Honor 
seemed  worried." 

He  never  could  resist  Sheila;  and  the  fact  that  he  had  made  a 
fool  of  himself  had  to  be  accounted  for  somehow. 

"I'm  not  ill,"  he  said,  frowning  because  speech  was  difficult. 
"  But  I've  had  a  bit  of  an  upset.  Sorry  I  can't  be  more  explicit. 
I  suppose  it  reacted  on  my  rotten  nerves.  All  I  want  is  —  to 
get  away  alone  and  have  a  go  at  something.  Haven't  you  any 
errands  in  Wynchmere  —  if  Mark  would  trust  me  with  his 
little  car?  Promise  I  won't  bring  back  the  pieces  hi  my  pocket! " 
Behind  his  awkward  manner  and  attempt  at  humour,  she 
divined  his  very  real  pain. 

"Couldn't  you  talk  it  out  with  Mark?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 


392  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Very  well.  You  shall  talk  it  out  with  the  car!  I'll  provide 
the  errands,  and  I'm  sure  Gay  will  subscribe — " 

"Don't  give  me  away,"  he  said  quickly. 

"Of  course  not."  Then  because  her  sympathy  could  not  be 
spoken,  she  laid  a  soothing  hand  on  his  shoulder  a  moment  — 
and  was  gone. 

The  blessed  relief  it  was  to  get  clean  away  from  them  all  — 
the  little  car  purring  under  him  like  a  live  thing;  the  blue  un 
heeding  skies  above  him;  the  breeze  in  his  face;  the  sun's  caress 
on  his  bare  head.  In  times  of  stress,  he  had  turned  instinctively 
to  Earth,  as  to  a  mother  —  the  only  real  mother  he  had  known. 
The  car,  as  Mark  said,  almost  drove  herself;  and  once  his  errands 
were  over,  Derek  gave  'the  little  beauty'  her  head. 

Up  and  down  and  along  endless  stretches  of  sunlit  road  he 
raced,  in  flat  defiance  of  the  law;  dashing  through  deep-hearted 
lanes,  as  through  a  tunnel,  and  out  again  across  sweeps  of  open 
moor  —  brown  and  green  and  rose-madder,  with  splashes  of 
purple  where  the  bell  heather  was  in  bloom.  Clouds  gathered 
in  the  west,  extinguished  the  sun,  and  emptied  themselves  in  a 
refreshing  shower  that  seemed  to  cool  a  little  the  fire  in  his 
blood.  Nothing  for  it,  then,  but  to  head  for  home. 

He  arrived,  drenched  to  the  skin,  was  convicted  of  a  tem 
perature  and  condemned  to  bed.  And  his  fellow  patients,  in 
their  kindly  ignorance,  came  and  ministered  unto  him. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Truth  rejected  returns  as  pain. 

ROBERT  NICHOLLS,  R.F.A. 

MEANTIME,  up  in  London,  Van  was  suffering  also,  after  his  kind. 

In  the  first  place,  these  three  weeks  of  self-imposed  absence, 
designed  to  bring  Gabrielle  to  her  senses,  had  brought  him 
metaphorically  to  her  feet.  He  knew,  now,  that  he  was  gen 
uinely  in  love  with  her;  that  his  antagonism  to  that  intrusive 
infant  sprang  from  sheer  jealousy  —  the  possessive  passion  that 
no  woman  had  hitherto  stirred  in  his  lukewarm  soul.  A  man 
given  to  self-deception  can  seldom  discern  the  true  springs  of 
action  either  in  himself  or  others.  For  the  light  within  him  is 
darkness.  But  this  much  at  least  he  had  discovered  by  the 
uncomfortable  intensity  of  his  sensations,  that  irresistibly  she 
drew  him  —  held  him;  while  he  —  fool  that  he  was  —  had  in 
sanely  taken  it  for  granted  that  absence  would  quicken  her 
need  of  him. 

And  when  Van  could  accuse  himself  of  folly  he  was  far  gone 
indeed. 

On  Friday  morning,  when  Francis  came  in  to  draw  the  cur 
tains,  he  decided  —  it  must  be  to-day.  Another  twenty-four 
hours  of  uncertainty  was  more  than  a  fellow  could  stand  — 

Two  hours  later,  he  sat  in  the  most  comfortable  chair  of  his 
supremely  comfortable  drawing-room,  staring  straight  before 
him  —  Lord  Avonleigh's  open  letter  in  his  hand. 

What  the  hell  did  it  mean  and  who  the  devil  had  put  Uncle 
Vyvian  on  the  Schonberg  track?  What  skunk  was  responsible 
for  the  details  of  that  para  — ?  The  mere  touch  of  it  seemed 
to  smirch  his  gentlemanly  fingers,  that  had  curiously  never 
recoiled  from  the  touch  of  Schonberg's  money.  Last  and 
worst,  what  the  hell  was  going  to  come  of  it  all  — ? 


394  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Reluctantly,  for  the  second  time,  he  read  his  father's  letter. 
Its  curt,  restrained  phrases  cut  Like  flicks  of  a  whip. 

DEAR  VAN,— 

I  hardly  know  how  to  write  to  you.  If  you  will  glance  through 
the  enclosed,  you  may,  perhaps,  understand  my  difficulty.  I  have 
always  recognized,  with  regret,  that  a  sense  of  responsibility  was  not 
the  most  robust  of  your  qualities.  And  I  confess  I  had  qualms  on 
leaving  England.  But,  at  least,  I  believed  that  the  honour  of  our 
house  and  name  would  be  safe  in  your  hands.  It  is  not  pleasant  to 
find  that  I  made  the  greatest  mistake  of  my  life.  Your  letters,  that 
seemed  so  frank,  stand  revealed  as  masterpieces  of  mis-statement.  I 
congratulate  you.  It  seems  you  are  a  good  deal  cleverer  —  and  less 
squeamish  —  than  I  supposed.  It  is  bitter  to  realize  how  one's  eyes 
may  be  blinded  by  affection  and  pride. 

I  am  writing  to  Schonberg  this  mail.  So  far,  I  have  left  you  per 
fectly  free.  Now  I  must  take  matters  into  my  own  hands,  though 
God  knows  I  have  enough  to  tackle  out  here.  To  begin  with,  kindly 
send  me  a  full  list  of  the  hospital  staff  and  exert  yourself  to  discover 
their  true  names  and  nationality.  When  you  have  read  all,  I  hope 
you  may  have  the  grace  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  —  if  only  because 
you  have  broken  the  eleventh  Commandment.  Where  much  is 
given,  much  is  required  —  and  good  measure  pressed  down  has  been 
given  to  you  ever  since  you  were  born  — 

Van  set  his  teeth,  and  the  muscles  of  his  throat  worked  pain 
fully.  Into  a  single  sheet  his  father  had  compressed  the  full 
force  of  his  anger,  his  pain  and  bitterness  of  soul.  He  could 
not  bring  himself  to  read  it  all  again.  With  unsteady  fingers, 
he  struck  a  match  and  held  the  paper  in  the  flame  till  it  was 
reduced  to  ashes.  The  cutting  and  General  Blount's  discon 
certing  array  of  facts  shared  the  same  fate.  Even  in  the 
midst  of  his  genuine  distress  the  instinct  to  safeguard  himself 
prevailed. 

Then,  with  curses  in  his  heart,  he  lit  a  cigarette  and  continued 
to  sit  there,  feeling  utterly  confounded. 

He  was  of  those  who  live  spiritually  from  hand  to  mouth  and 
find  themselves  without  anchorage  in  the  day  of  trouble.  Anger, 
alarm,  curiosity,  in  turn  tormented  him;  and  beneath  the  sur- 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  395 

face  confusion  lurked  a  deadly  fear  of  Schonberg,  whose  relentless 
fingers  held  all  the  strings  — 

What,  precisely,  had  his  father  said  to  that  most  formidable 
of  men?  Judging  from  his  own  sample,  he  had  been  in  no 
temper  to  mince  his  words.  Yet  he  did  not  see  him  giving 
away  his  own  son  —  whatever  his  shortcomings.  And  again  — 
what  line  would  Schonberg  take,  if  seriously  angered?  In  no 
direction  could  he  see  an  inch  ahead  —  he  who  had  been  wont 
to  move  securely  through  a  world  of  agreeable  shams  and  skil 
fully  stage-managed  facts.  He  felt  stunned  in  the  clutch  of  un 
yielding  reality;  powerless  as  a  corn  of  wheat  between  two 
grindstones  .  .  . 

Goaded  by  sheer  agitation,  he  rose  and  paced  the  room  — 
fresh  images,  fresh  perplexities  mocking  him  at  every  stride. 
Sharply  it  came  home  to  him  that  his  father's  undemonstrative 
love  and  confidence  were  possessions  that  he  could  not  bear  to 
lose.  And  what  of  his  mother,  if  this  horrid  situation  got 
completely  out  of  hand?  Unthinkable  that  she  should  ever  see 
him  stripped  of  the  halo  he  had  been  at  such  pains  to  keep 
bright. 

More  than  once  he  cursed  Uncle  Vyvian  for  an  officious  med 
dler;  and  again  fell  to  wondering  irritably  who  had  given  him 
away?  (Lord  Avonleigh,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  had  omitted 
any  allusion  to  Derek.)  Had  Karl  or  Dirks  been  stupidly  in 
discreet?  He  could  not,  even  in  desperation,  suspect  either  of 
deliberately  letting  him  down.  Indeed,  he  could  scarcely  think 
coherently  at  all.  He  felt  trapped  —  paralyzed;  wondered  who 
would  make  the  first  move;  knew  himself  —  with  acute  annoy 
ance  —  incapable  of  making  it  — 

Dared  he  even  go  down  to  Wynchcombe  Friars?  Would 
Derek  know?  Would  Gabrielle  know?  More  than  ever,  now, 
he  had  urgent  need  to  stand  high  in  her  esteem  .  .  . 

A  sudden,  blessed  impulse  seized  him.  Here  was  a  way  to 
defer  his  evil  hour.  He  would  go  down  at  once  and  secure  her 
before  worse  befell.  The  fact  of  a  sound  marriage  in  prospect 
—  with  a  connection  of  Burltons  to  boot  —  might  just  possibly 
be  of  use  if  Schonberg  were  inclined  to  cut  up  rough.  At  least 


396  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

it  was  encouraging  to  hope  so.  Acutely  he  realized  how  in 
finitesimal  was  his  knowledge  of  the  man. 

The  sooner  he  got  away  the  better  — 

There  was  sheer  relief  in  the  simple  act  of  ringing  for  Francis, 
of  issuing  orders  for  the  car  to  be  summoned,  the  portmanteau 
packed. 

But  he  was  hardly  gone  before  the  imperative  voice  of  the 
telephone  jerked  him  back  to  uncertainty.  Schonberg  —  or 
his  mother  — ? 

While  he  stood  irresolute,  the  summons  was  repeated ;  and  his 
tentative  "Hulloa! "  was  answered  in  Schonberg's  guttural  tones. 

"That  you,  Blount?  Schonberg  speaking—  Those  few 
words  sufficed.  There  would  be  trouble.  "I  haf  a  most  dis 
agreeable  letter  from  Lord  Afonleigh.  I  must  see  you  at  once. 
I  shall  gome  in  half  an  hour." 

Van  —  after  expressing  polite  concern  —  found  courage  to  pro 
test  that  he  was  obliged  to  go  out  of  town  for  the  week-end  — 

An  odd  chuckle  interrupted  him.  Nothing  genial  in  the 
sound  of  it.  "  There  are  some  matters  of  greater  concern  than 
weeg-ends.  I  must  ask  you  to  favour  me  by  changing  your 
plans.  You  haf  heard  yourself?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  are  ang-shus  to  defer  the  pleasure?  It  is  not  my 
habit  to  defer  pleasures  —  or  pains.  Zo!" 

Before  Van  could  answer,  he  found  himself  rung  off;  forced 
ignominiously  to  countermand  his  urgent  orders,  and  to  face  at 
leisure  the  worst  half-hour  of  his  life. 

He  had  scarcely  faced  ten  minutes  of  it  —  with  the  inadequate 
assistance  of  the  Telegraph  —  when  that  vexatious  bell  startled 
him  afresh. 

He  cursed  the  confounded  thing  —  and  went  on  with  his 
article. 

"Ting-ting-ting!"  it  repeated;  and  the  sharp  sound  seemed 
to  stab  his  brain.  Probably  some  tradesman.  Why  didn't 
Francis  attend  to  the  fellow?  He  wanted  to  read  about  "In 
vincible  Russia."  Things  might  fluctuate  a  bit;  but  one's 
investments  were  safe  in  that  quarter  — 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  397 

When  the  door-handle  turned,  he  started  visibly.  It  was 
only  Francis  —  who  saw  and  heard  nothing  but  what  he  was 
paid  to  see  and  hear. 

''Lady  Avonleigh  on  the  'phone,  please,  sir,"  he  announced. 
"She  wants  to  speak  to  you  —  very  particular." 

Genuine  remorse  brought  Van  to  his  feet.  Goodness  knew 
what  they  had  written  to  the  poor  dear;  and  he  had  kept  her 
waiting.  Unpardonable!  Brushing  past  his  decorously  in 
trigued  manservant,  he  hurried  into  the  adjoining  room. 

"That  you,  Mother?"  he  asked  superfluously;  and  a  small 
gasp  assured  him  that  it  was  so. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming,"  she  lamented,  without 
a  hint  of  reproach. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  dear  — 

He  paused,  uncertainly;  and  she  began  again. 

"Van  —  I'm  so  worried.  I've  had  the  most  extraordinary 
letter  from  Aunt  Marion.  Not  a  line  from  Father  —  Have  you 
heard?  Do  come  round  at  once." 

"Wish  to  Heaven  I  could,"  Van  answered  honestly  enough. 
"I'm  tied  up  with  an  urgent  business  appointment  — 
Schonberg." 

"  Oh,  darling  —  do  be  careful,"  her  voice  was  almost  inaudible. 
"He  doesn't  seem  to  be  —  quite  — " 

"Confound  Aunt  Marion!"  thought  Van.  Aloud  he  said 
hurriedly:  "Don't  get  in  a  state,  dear.  I'll  come  to  lunch  — 
and  we'll  talk  it  out.  I've  heard  from  Father.  Just  go  ahead 
with  your  usual  affairs.  I'll  be  punctual." 

"Darling  —  what  a  comfort  you  are!"  she  breathed;  and  Van 
returned  to  his  paper,  feeling  soothed  by  her  implicit  faith  in 
him. 

Come  what  might,  her  trust,  her  love  must  not  be  shaken. 
She  would  never  survive  the  shock  of  disillusion;  and  his  con 
cern  for  her  was  as  genuine  —  almost  —  as  for  himself.  In  all 
his  days  he  had  never  heard  a  note  of  disapproval  in  her  voice 
or  seen  the  light  of  criticism  in  her  eyes.  "Wonderful  things  — 
mothers,"  he  reflected,  and  felt  distinctly  grateful  to  Nature 
for  her  crowning  achievement. 


398  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

But  there  still  remained  the  staggering  consideration  —  what 
the  devil  was  he  going  to  say  to  Schonberg?  Impossible  even 
to  frame  a  sentence,  since  he  had  not  a  glimmering  idea  what 
Schonberg  would  say  to  him  — ! 

Punctually  at  the  half-hour  he  was  ushered  in  by  Francis 
with  an  air  of  italicized  respect  that  tinged  the  valet's  whole 
attitude  to  this  particular  guest. 

"Goot  morning,  Mr.  Blount,"  he  said,  as  the  door  closed. 
For  Van  those  four  words  and  the  unfamiliar  prefix  to  his  own 
name  spelt  war. 

"  Good  morning  —  Schonberg,"  he  replied  with  a  valiant 
attempt  at  lightness.  "Have  I  been  tried  —  and  condemned 
unheard  —  what?  " 

Schonberg  regarded  him  a  moment,  with  that  strange  half- 
threatening  lift  of  his  lids. 

"Ach,  my  friendt,  your  eeg-winimity  is  not  easily  shaken. 
But  to-day  I  haf  no  taste  for  leetle  chokes.  I  haf  received 
from  Lord  Afonleigh  a  letter  that,  in  plain  wrords,  I  taig  as  an 
insult,  gonsidering  how  I  haf  spared  no  trouble  in  this  business 
and  haf  alzo  done  a  goot  many  services  of  friendship,  for  his 
son.  But  of  that,  it  is  pozzible,  he  is  ignorant  —  hem?" 

With  a  flourish  he  produced  the  offending  letter.  "I  shall 
ask  you  to  read  that  and  tell  me  wrhat  ag-shun  you  propose  to 
take  in  the  matter?  " 

Van  —  whose  equanimity  was  not  proof  against  the  attack 
direct  —  took  the  thing  without  a  word.    A  big  pulse  was 
beating  in  his  throat  as  he  unfolded  the  sheet  and  read: 
DEAR  MR.  SCHONBERG, — 

Unpleasant  things  are  best  said  in  fewest  words.  So  I  will  be  brief 
and  straightforward.  I  have  known,  of  course,  from  my  son  that 
you  were  among  those  who  first  subscribed  to  start  the  Avonleigh 
Auxiliary  Hospital,  and  that  you  have  since  continued  to  take  an 
interest  in  it.  But,  being  up  to  my  eyes  in  work  out  here,  I  left 
things  almost  entirely  in  his  hands;  and  only  lately  I  have  had  leisure 
to  go  into  details.  I  am  more  than  surprised  to  find  that  the  lion's 
share  of  the  cost  appears  to  have  been  borne  by  you.  Very  generous 
on  your  part;  but,  frankly,  I  do  not  choose  to  be  so  heavily  beholden  to 
any  man,  least  of  all  to  one  who  bears  an  enemy  name,  naturalized 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  399 

or  no.  I  make  no  personal  implications.  I  merely  assert  that  a  man's 
link  with  his  own  country  is  too  vital  to  be  affected  by  any  superficial 
shifting  of  sympathy  or  interests.  It  is  a  point  on  which  I  feel  very 
strongly.  My  son  and  I  have  never  thought  alike  in  this  matter; 
and,  in  his  zeal  to  do  the  thing  well,  he  has  gone  farther  than  I  approve 
in  the  direction  of  accepting  outside  contributions.  I  shall  be  much 
obliged,  therefore,  if  you  will  let  me  know  precisely  what  your  outlay 
has  been,  in  addition  to  the  first  contribution,  and  it  shall  be  refunded. 
The  whole  thing  will  shortly  have  to  be  run  on  a  more  modest  scale, 
as  ill-health  may  entail  my  leaving  India;  and  I  could  then  only  spare 
part  of  the  house.  In  the  circumstances,  you  will  probaby  wish  to 
retire  from  the  Committee  —  and  I  confess  I  should  prefer  it. 
With  all  due  acknowledgment  of  your  assistance  to  my  son, 

I  am,  yours,  etc., 

AVONLEIGH 

Van's  mouth  had  gone  dry  as  he  read  his  father's  clever, 
yet  frankly  inimical  letter.  He  could  feel  Schonberg's  eyes 
on  his  face;  and  he  had  not  the  courage  to  look  up  and  meet 
them. 

The  German,  probably  aware  of  that  inability,  grew  impatient. 

"Zo!  It  is  not  written  in  Greeg  nor  Shinese,"  he  broke  out; 
and  the  roughness  in  his  tone  was  new  to  Van.  "It  is  —  in 
plain  English  —  Hands  off  my  affair !  His  noble  lordship  for 
gets.  Afonleigh  may  be  his;  but  the  affair  is  mine.  Again, 
it  is  pozzible  he  does  not  know  —  hein?" 

Van  moistened  his  lips.  "Sit  down,  won't  you?  It's  as 
cheap  as  standing,"  he  said  politely.  As  long  as  possible  he 
would  keep  the  talk  on  a  light  note. 

Schonberg  came  down  heavily  upon  the  nearest  chair;  and 
Van  was  thankful  to  follow  suit.  He  thought:  "I  may  be  in  a 
blue  funk,  but  he  shan't  come  the  Prussian  over  me." 

"Zo?" 

Again  that  maddening  monosyllable  was  shot  at  him,  like  a 
discharge  of  cannon. 

"Well  —  you  see  for  yourself  what  my  father  says.  He  is 
full  up  with  work ;  so  —  one  did  not  worry  him  with  details. 
Besides  —  he  has  his  cranks  ...  his  prejudices.  And  —  per- 


400  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

sonally,  while  I  was  in  charge  of  things,  I  considered  myself 
free  to  follow  my  own  inclinations  ..." 

"Only  —  you  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  say  so?  Aha!" 
A  more  genial  light  gleamed  in  Schonberg's  unwavering  eye. 
"To  say  just  so  mush  —  but  not  all;  that  is  the  grade  art,  my 
friendt.  But  —  there  is  need  of  skill.  There  is  alzo  need  of 
courage.  The  bold  strogue  at  the  zygological  moment  — 
which  has  now  arrived.  Your  father  has  prejudices  —  yes. 
He  will  not  be  beholden  —  no.  Begoz  I  am  a  Cherman.  With 
you  it  is  otherwise  —  as  I  haf  practical  proof.  And  I  haf  been 
a  goot  friendt  to  you,  Blount.  It  is  now  for  you  to  play  up 
and  speak  for  me  to  your  noble  father.  How  can  I  help  it  — 
if  I  am  a  Cherman?  Let  a  man  be  judged  by  his  actions 
—not  so?" 

"Of  course,  of  course,  my  dear  fellow.  And  you,  being  an 
active  verb,  can  give  me  points  on  that  score!"  He  was  silent, 
weighing  each  desperate  alternative.  It  seemed  he  stood  to  be 
worsted  either  way;  but  his  chief  concern,  at  the  moment,  was 
to  keep  Schonberg  in  his  more  friendly  vein.  "Heaven  knows 
I'm  willing  to  do  what  I  can  for  you.  But  you  can't  hold  me 
responsible  for  my  father's  taste  in  nationalities.  Nothing  I 
could  say  would  change  his  opinion,  in  that  matter  or  any  other. 
You  can't  be  more  annoyed  over  it  all  than  I  am;  but  I  give 
you  my  word,  old  chap  —  it  isn't  any  earthly  — 

A  sceptical  glimmer  in  Schonberg's  eyes  checked  his  plausible 
flow  of  speech;  and  the  large  head  nodded  several  times  like  an 
automaton. 

"No  more  need  of  flummery.  You  haf  to  choose  between 
your  father  and  me.  To  run  with  the  hare  and  the  hounds  is 
not  so  easy  as  it  looks,  my  friendt.  You  haf  some  skill,  but 
you  haf  just  not  suffeecient  moral  courage  for  the  game  you 
would  so  mush  like  to  play.  Your  father  is  a  strong  man  —  a 
hard  man.  Not  the  kind  to  wink  at  your  so  many  picadillies. 
Women  —  perhaps.  Money,  and  other  sush  leetle  matters  — 
no.  And  he  is  too  mush  the  great  chentleman  to  gif  you 
away.  He  had  no  leisure  —  zo!  You  think  I  gannot  read 
between  the  lines?  It  is  another  who  has  done  him  the 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  401 

favour  to  tell  him  some  trifling  facts  you  disgreetly  overlooked 
-not  so?" 

Van  shrugged.  "There  are  always  plenty  of  people  ready 
to  do  one  that  kind  of  disservice." 

Increasing  fear  and  distrust  of  the  man  warned  him  to  be 
cautious.  But  Schonberg  had  an  uncomfortable  trick  of  seem 
ing  to  read  the  writing  on  a  man's  brain. 

"Zo!  You  do  not  wish  to  say?  Very  well.  I  am  here  for 
pragtical  business.  Your  father  thinks  to  refund  my  outlay  is 
all  the  need.  Quatch!  He  is  English.  He  does  not  under 
stand  Schonberg.  I  haf  put  into  this  business  more  than 
money.  But,  my  Gott!  He  would  open  his  eyes  quicker  than 
his  purse,  if  I  should  taig  him  at  his  word  and  present  my  leetle 
aggount.  Better  for  you,  Blount,  and  for  Afonleigh,  if  you 
shall  insist  that  the  full  disgretion  he  gave  you  must  hold 
till  his  return;  that  you  cannot  go  back  on  a  friendt  who  has 
done  goot  service  to  the  gountry  and  to  yourself.  It  is  liguely 
you  prefer  he  should  not  know  that  —  hein?  " 

Van  bit  his  lip  and  stared  hard  at  his  flowering  plants,  as  if 
the  right  answer  to  that  awkward  question  lay  hidden  in  their 
depths.  More  and  more  he  felt  like  a  corn  of  wheat  between 
the  upper  and  nether  millstone.  It  was  a  position  without 
precedent;  and  since  he  lived  mainly  by  precedent,  by  the 
code  of  the  right  thing,  he  was  correspondingly  at  a  loss.  If 
neither  his  father  nor  Schonberg  would  budge  an  inch  — ? 

"Are  you  so  dead  keen  on  Avonleigh?"  he  temporized. 
"You  have  no  end  of  bigger  concerns.  I  should  have 
thought—" 

Schonberg  dismissed  his  thought  with  a  large,  outspread 
hand;  and  Van  mechanically  noticed  that  its  nails  were  not  so 
clean  as  they  might  be.  "No  more  time  for  beating  the  bush. 
Your  father  is  too  strong.  You  haf  not  courage  to  stand  up 
against  him." 

Sheer  nervousness  goaded  Van  into  impatience.  "I'll  trouble 
you  not  to  fling  cowardice  in  my  teeth.  One  might  as  well  try 
and  shift  Avonleigh  Hall  to  suit  one's  convenience.  You  don't 
know  my  father,  Schonberg." 


402  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Not  so?  But  I  haf  the  pleasure  and  prifilege  to  know  his 
son."  A  lurking  significance  in  his  tone  sent  a  trickle  of  appre 
hension  down  Van's  spine.  "I  maig  it  my  business  to  know 
my  friendts  —  alzo  my  enemies." 

"Why  talk  of  enemies?"  Van  parried  desperately. 

"Begoz  your  father  is  treating  me  as  such  —  and  you  are  not 
so  mush  my  friend  as  to  venture  one  small  protest.  Haf  I 
asked  you  any  favours,  egsept  this  one?  If  I  was  not  keen  for 
this  Hospital  business  would  I  taig  so  much  trouble?  I  do  not 
want  the  bother  to  start  all  afresh.  But  this  one  thing  I  ask 
of  you;  and  —  you  won't  do  it." 

"Damn  it  all,  I  teU  you  it's  a  case  of  'Can't.'" 

Schonberg's  smile  scarcely  veiled  a  sneer.  "Who  wills  — 
can.  By  that  belief  I  haf  leaped  over  every  wall.  I  was 
not  born,  like  yourself,  in  a  padded  armchair.  And  I  can 
tell  you,  Blount,  I  am  better  to  haf  for  a  friend  than  an  enemy. 
You  will  not  do  what  I  ask.  Zol  Yet  you  were  ready  enough 
I  should  foot  the  egspense;  and  my  leetle  aggount  —  I  haf 
warned  you  —  will  startle  Lord  Afonleigh.  Especially  if  I 
shall  add  a  few  extra  trifles  that  you  haf  not  found  it  gonvenient 
to  repay  — 

Van  flinched  and  changed  colour,  but  he  said  nothing;  and 
Schonberg  went  suavely  on:  "Mutual  aggommodation  be 
tween  friendts  —  that  is  sound  policy.  If  no  longer  mutual  — 
then  I  claim  what  is  my  own.  Nashurally  —  if  you  can  pay 
me  back  — 

His  hands  were  expressively  flung  out ;  and  Van  —  who  was 
not  given  to  restlessness  —  rose  abruptly.  For  the  second 
time  that  morning,  he  paced  his  carpet  in  unfeigned  distrac 
tion  of  mind.  His  father's  anger,  was  a  terrible  thing;  but 
once  let  Schonberg  suspect  that  he  went  in  fear  of  it — ! 
This  genial  fellow,  of  whom  once  he  could  believe  no  harm, 
seemed  distorted  suddenly  into  a  semi-scoundrel  capable  of  the 
worst  — 

At  last  he  came  to  a  standstill,  furrows  of  perplexity  on  his 
smooth  forehead. 

"Of  course  —  I  can  pay  back  part.    In  fact  —  all  —  I  hope 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  403 

—  if  you  give  me  time.  The  whole  thing  is  so  unexpected  — 
so  detestable.  I  imagined  I  was  dealing  with  a  gentleman  — 

The  arrow  glanced  harmlessly  aside. 

"We  shall  never  be  chentlemen,  and  you  will  always  be 
fools!"  Schonberg  paraphrased  his  own  countrymen;  and  his 
sneer  was  no  longer  veiled.  "This  mush  I  can  tell  you,  Blount, 
you  are  dealing  with  a  man  who  knows  his  own  mind  and  is 
aggustomed  to  get  his  own  wray.  Either  you  shah1  write  to 
your  father  or  —  I  write  myself  —  whatever  I  think  fit  — " 

"In  fact  —  you  threaten  me!"  Van  retorted,  a  spark  of  de 
fiance  in  his  grey  eyes.  "Then,  by  God,  you  shall  write  and 
tell  him  what  you  damn  well  please.  My  father,  even  in  anger, 
is  a  just  man.  I  would  sooner  be  in  his  hands  — 

' A-ach!  Now  we  know  precizely  where  we  stand."  The 
change  of  tone  was  startling;  and  Van  —  for  all  his  brave 
words  —  wished  to  Heaven  he  knew  anything  of  the  kind. 
"Whatever  you  can  pay  me  —  zo.  What  you  cannot  goes  in 
my  aggount.  I  gif  you  a  week.  Goot  morning."  He  rose 
with  a  formal  bow.  "It  is  a  pity.  I  haf  wished  to  be  friendts." 

"  Well  —  why  not?  "  queried  Van,  hopeful  to  the  last  of  keep 
ing  his  seat  on  both  stools.  "You  lose  nothing.  It  comes 
hardest  on  me." 

"Perhaps  I  shall  lose  more  than  you  think  for,"  Schonberg 
answered  in  his  normal  voice.  "We  are  not  'dead  cuts,'  as  you 
say.  But  never  the  same  —  not  pozzible." 

"No  —  bad  luck! "  muttered  Van  —  and  he  meant  it. 

"Ach  —  for  you  people  it  is  always  luck  — " 

"With  just  a  dash  of  pluck?" 

"Zo  —  I  do  not  deny  it  —  And  they  parted  without  shak 
ing  hands. 

Van,  left  alone,  subsided  into  the  '  padded  armchair '  —  his 
birthplace  —  and  let  the  full  bitterness  of  realization  sweep  over 
him.  All  the  secure  foundations  of  his  personal  life  were 
shaken.  He  had  not  a  ghost  of  a  notion,  now,  what  Schonberg 
would  say  to  his  father.  With  a  little  dexterity  he  could  give 
things  an  uncommonly  ugly  look.  He  recalled,  with  a  pang  of 


404  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

mingled  remorse  and  fear,  the  nature  of  their  talk  at  some  of 
those  intimate  little  dinners  when  Schonberg  had  been  so  free 
with  the  fizz  and  old  brandy. 

No  denying,  he  had  been  a  bit  incautious  at  tunes  in  his 
allusions  to  departmental  matters.  Just  a  harmless  and  very 
human  weakness  for  seeming  to  be  'in  the  know.'  But  quite  a 
different  colour  could  be  given  to  it  all,  as  well  he  knew,  being 
a  skilled  hand  at  that  invaluable  art;  and  he  thanked  whatever 
gods  there  be  that  his  father's  just  indignation  would  have  time 
to  cool  before  they  two  met  face  to  face.  He  was  bound  to  be 
ultimately  forgiven;  but  the  interview  would  be  deuced  un 
pleasant,  a  sharp  lesson  to  him  to  be  more  cautious  in  the  future. 

Reluctantly  enough,  he  was  driven  to  admit  that  the  net  had 
been  spread  in  the  sight  of  the  bird  —  not  altogether  in  vain. 
And  suddenly  it  dawned  on  him  that  the  unflattering  admission 
applied  to  his  country  no  less  than  to  himself.  It  was  vaguely 
consoling  to  reflect  that  a  good  few  politicians  must  have  found 
themselves  in  much  the  same  dilemma,  when  Germany  dropped 
her  mask.  Finance  behind  it,  probably,  as  in  his  own  com 
plication  ;  and  no  doubt  some  were  in  a  tighter  place  than  he. 

If  the  larger  dilemma  condoned  and  comforted  him  not  a 
little,  so  did  the  certainty  of  his  mother's  allegiance;  and,  above 
all,  the  unabashed  hope  of  winning  Gabrielle  de  Vigne.  The 
knowledge  that  she  cared  would  go  far  to  heal  his  wounded 
self-esteem;  and  a  sound  marriage  might  help,  eventually,  to 
reinstate  him  in  his  father's  eyes.  To-day  he  would  fix  up  his 
mother.  To-morrow,  first  thing,  Wynchcombe  Friars  — 

By  the  time  he  stood  on  the  steps  of  Avonleigh  House  he 
looked  almost  himself  again. 

His  mother's  greeting  was  more  effusive  than  usual.  "Oh, 
my  darling  boy,"  she  murmured,  clinging  to  him,  and  the 
fervour  of  his  kiss  obliterated  hours  of  doubt  and  pain.  For 
Marion  Blount,  in  anger,  was  unsparing  as  her  brother. 

"All  serene,  dear,"  Van  replied  to  her  mute  question.  "It's 
no  treat  being  slanged  by  Father.  But  —  it'll  blow  over." 

"  Did  he  —  slang  you?  " 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  405 

A  mild  pugnacity  gleamed  in  her  eye. 

Van  nodded,  and  gently  pressed  her  down  into  her  chair. 
"Don't  stand  about  and  get  agitated!  It's  very  bad  for  you." 

"But  I  am  agitated.  I  think  they're  both  very  unjust  and 
unkind.  They  exaggerate  things.  You  know  Mr.  Schonberg 
better  than  they  do.  He  is  all  right  —  isn't  he,  dear?" 

Van  pensively  fingered  his  moustache. 

"I  have  no  proof  to  the  contrary;  and  I  don't  hold  with  con 
demning  a  man  out  of  hand.  But  —  you  know  what  Father's 
like  about  Germans." 

"Yes.  And  —  about  Avonleigh.  What  —  what  did  he  say, 
darling?  Have  you  brought  his  letter?" 

Van  reddened.  "No  —  I  burnt  it.  He  said  —  hard  things, 
that  he  will  probably  regret  later  on.  It  upset  me,  naturally; 
and  I  didn't  see  why  you  should  be  upset,  too.  But  I'd  like 
to  know  what  earthly  right  Aunt  Marion  had  to  let  fly  at  you. 
Is  it  a  very  choice  effusion?  May  I  see  it?  " 

A  light  that  was  almost  humour  invaded  his  mother's  serene 
eyes. 

"It's  burnt,  too.  Such  a  mistake  keeping  that  sort  of  thing. 
The  servants  —  one  never  knows.  It  was  —  hateful !  And  — 
/  didn't  want  to  upset  you!" 

They  exchanged  a  smile  of  tender  amusement.  "How  we 
understand  each  other,  don't  we,  Van?" 

Then  she  harked  back  to  General  Blount.  A  man  who  could 
traduce  his  own  nephew!  "It's  Uncle  Vyvian  I'm  so  angry 
with  —  interfering  —  poisoning  Father's  mind  against  you.  I 
really  do  think  you  should  see  him  or  write  — 

But  Van  was  very  decisive  on  that  score.  "Uncle  Vyvian's 
a  tough  customer,  Mother.  And  we  don't  hit  it  off.  It's 
Dirks  he  favours." 

"Yes.  I've  noticed  it.  And  —  I've  been  thinking  —  won 
dering"  —  she  hesitated  nervously — "  whether  —  Derek  has  had 
anything  to  do  with  all  this?" 

Van  started.     "Mother!    Dirks  would  never  let  me  down." 

Her  eyes  fell.  She  fingered  a  long  chain  she  wore.  "Of 
course  not.  But  since  he  came  home  he  has  been  very  out- 


406  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

spoken  —  very  critical.  You  remember  how  troublesome  he 
was  —  about  Avonleigh  last  year.  And  he  doesn't  like  Mr. 
Schonberg  —  does  he?" 

"No." 

"Well  —  you  can't  tell  what  he  may  have  said  to  Uncle 
Vyvian.  He's  so  tactless  sometimes  —  so  clumsy.  And  I 
think,  nowadays,  he's  rather  jealous  —  over  Father  and  you." 
Again  she  hesitated,  and  glanced  at  Van,  whose  attention 
seemed  to  be  concentrated  on  the  discovery  that  a  waistcoat 
button  was  loose.  "I  hate  saying  horrid  things  of  my  own  son; 
but  Aunt  Marion  annoyed  me.  She  made  —  unfair  compari 
sons.  And  —  thinking  things  over,  it  seems  quite  possible 
some  stupid  interference  of  Derek's  may  be  at  the  bottom 
of  it  all." 

Still  Van  was  silent,  viciously  twisting  his  button  till  it  came 
off.  Of  course,  he  ought  to  speak  up  and  clear  Derek,  who  had 
straightly  and  pluckily  tried  to  save  him  at  the  start,  and  had 
been  scalped  for  his  pains.  But  he  was  still  smarting  from  the 
hurts  inflicted  by  his  father,  and  from  the  unknown  things  Aunt 
Marion  had  said.  His  mother's  championship  had  never  been 
more  precious  to  him.  And,  after  all,  she  was  making  no  base 
insinuations.  If  she  saw  him  as  a  martyr  to  Uncle  Vyvian's 
and  Derek's  interference,  nothing  the  others  could  say  against 
him  would  shake  her  obstinate  faith.  Besides  —  how  could  he 
tell  what  Derek  might  or  might  not  have  said  without  any 
thought  of  doing  harm? 

Unconsciously,  instinctively,  he  was  hedging  —  as  he  had 
hedged  over  the  Satsuma  vase  seventeen  years  ago.  Some 
thing  precious  had  been  broken.  His  mother's  instinct  — 
now  as  then  —  was  to  blame  Derek,  to  shield  him.  And, 
sooner  than  undeceive  her,  he  kept  silence  —  leaving  Derek  to 
shift  for  himself. 

"It's  an  unholy  muddle.  Why  blame  any  one?"  he  said  at 
last,  with  vague  and  quite  unconvincing  magnanimity.  "Let's 
have  lunch." 

As  she  rose  he  slipped  an  affectionate  hand  through  her  arm. 
With  her  he  was  secure.  To-morrow  —  Gabrielle  de  Vigne! 


CHAPTER  XII 

Thy  Lady,  was  thy  heart  not  blind, 

One  hour  gave  to  thy  witless  trust 
The  key  thou  goest  about  to  find  — 

And  thou  hast  dropped  it  in  the  dust. 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

HE  was  on  the  verge  of  departure  next  morning  when  Francis 
brought  in  the  second  post.  He  would  have  pocketed  it 
unread,  but  Karl's  handwriting  caught  his  eye.  Was  it 
possible — ? 

He  tore  open  the  envelope,  scanned  the  first  page  —  and 
glanced  at  Francis,  whose  eyes  were  on  his  face. 

"Curse  the  fellow's  impudence!"  he  thought;  but  he  merely 
said:  "Tell  Bennett  he  must  wait  a  bit  —  I'm  delayed." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

The  impudent  fellow  withdrew  noiselessly;  and  Van,  in  a 
fever  of  impatience,  sat  down  to  tackle  Karl's  astonishing  letter. 
Schonberg's  boast  that  he  never  let  two  blades  grow  under  his 
foot  was  no  empty  one.  It  appeared  he  had  motored  down  to 
Avonleigh  yesterday,  and  so  thoroughly  enlightened  the  un 
suspecting  Karl  that  the  good  fellow  begged  leave  to  be  released 
from  an  anomalous  position.  It  also  appeared  that  for  some 
time  Karl  had  been  considering,  the  advisability  of  such  a  move. 

"My  father,"  he  added,  "is  pressing  me  again  to  come  into 
one  of  his  lines  of  business,  which,  as  you  know,  does  not  suit 
my  book.  And  I  have  no  valid  excuse  for  my  refusal  but  — 
the  Army.  Lord  Avonleigh,  I  feel  sure,  will  not  want  me  to 
remain  on  —  in  the  unpleasant  circumstances ;  and  I  would 
rather  make  the  first  move  than  wait  till  he  gives  me  the  boot. 
I  hate  putting  you  out,  old  chap.  But  —  that's  that! " 

Van  set  his  teeth  upon  a  very  ugly  word.  He,  the  spoilt 
child  of  fortune,  had  a  sudden  nightmare  sense  of  being  tripped 


4o8  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

up  at  every  turn.  Karl's  letter  was  sympathetic,  yet  eminently 
cautious;  and  it  left  Van  wondering  uncomfortably  how  much 
of  it  all  had  been  news  to  him;  how  far  Schonberg's  version  of 
their  interview  had  shaken  the  implicit  faith  of  ten  years.  Van 
was  honestly  fond  of  Karl;  and,  like  all  egoists  in  the  grain,  he 
claimed,  as  a  right,  the  devout  allegiance  of  his  own  world. 
Till  yesterday,  he  had  taken  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  To-day 
he  knew  it  for  the  breath  of  his  nostrils.  Sooner  than  lose  it, 
he  had  left  his  mother  under  a  false  impression;  and  Karl,  of  all 
people,  must  not  be  allowed  to  kick  over  the  traces.  He  did 
not  feel  like  going  to  Avonleigh  yet  awhile;  but  he  must  write 
at  once. 

After  destroying  three  consecutive  sheets  of  argument  and 
explanation,  he  decided  on  an  ultimatum  in  the  vein  of  a  happier 
day. 

DEAR  OLD  MAN, — 

In  the  name  of  our  ancient  friendship  —  why  this  thusness? 
Though  there  has  been  a  bit  of  a  ruction,  I  refuse  to  admit  that  you 
are  involved.  And  you  don't  know  my  father,  if  you  think  he  could 
treat  you  unfairly  because  of  recent  untoward  events.  Honestly, 
Karl,  I  can't  do  without  you.  What's  more,  in  my  opinion,  if  you 
chuck  a  sound  job  on  account  of  this  dust-up,  it  will  look  a  bit  queer. 
Of  course  I  know  you're  a  white  man.  But  why  gratuitously  blacken 
your  own  face  and  hurt  my  feelings  into  the  bargain?  At  least, 
hang  on  till  Father  comes  back.  I  can't  manage  Avonleigh  this  week 
end,  or  I  would  come  and  convert  you  in  person.  I  expect  a  reply  by 
return,  in  two  words  —  Unconditional  surrender. 

Yours,  till  the  trump  of  doom  (and  it  hasn't  sounded  yet) 

E.  T.  B. 

"I  back  that  to  do  the  trick,"  he  thought,  sealing  his  en 
velope  with  the  Avonleigh  crest  —  a  falcon  poised  for  flight, 
over  the  motto,  "I  aspire."  He  posted  the  letter  himself,  in 
the  first  pillar-box.  Francis  had,  of  late,  shown  indiscreet 
signs  of  curiosity.  It  might  be  a  sound  move  to  dismiss  the 
fellow. 

He  dismissed  him,  forthwith,  from  his  thoughts;  cleared  the 
coast,  as  it  were,  of  every  minor  issue  save  his  chances  with 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  409 

Miss  de  Vigne.  Things  had  gone  so  ill  in  the  past  twenty-four 
hours  that  they  were  bound  to  be  near  the  turn.  There  flitted 
through  his  brain  a  vision  of  her  as  she  appeared  at  the  concert, 
when  he  had  felt  that  a  word,  a  touch,  would  bring  her  into  his 
arms.  A  foretaste  of  that  crowning  moment  thrilled  through 
him.  The  high  heavens  smiled  on  his  enterprise.  Early  June 
opened  her  passionate  heart  to  him  in  the  scent  of  the  first  wild 
roses  and  fields  carpeted  with  cloth  of  gold. 

Once  he  had  entered  the  drive,  nervousness  took  hold  of  him 
and  he  slackened  speed.  His  intense  desire  to  win  her  almost 
amounted  to  a  prayer  —  a  vague  appeal  to  some  unknown 
Maker  of  Destinies. 

And  in  passing  the  wide  yew  hedge  that  bordered  the  rose 
garden  he  caught  sight  of  a  woman's  figure  —  unmistakable; 
armed  with  a  basket,  as  he  had  seen  her  last.  His  prayer  was 
answered.  The  luck  was  in. 

He  remembered  an  arched  opening  in  the  hedge,  and,  halting 
the  car  in  mid-drive,  sprang  out.  Could  he  only  face  them  all 
as  an  accepted  lover,  it  would  go  far  to  restore  his  shaken 
self-respect. 

Under  the  arch  he  paused  for  the  pure  pleasure  of  watching 
her  undetected.  Both  arms  were  lifted  to  secure  a  coveted 
spray;  a  charming  attitude  that  showed  to  perfection  the 
gracious  lines  of  her  figure. 

But  she  had  heard  footsteps.  When  they  ceased,  she  turned 
her  head  —  and  discovered  him.  He  lifted  his  cap.  She 
arched  her  brows  over  smiling  eyes,  finished  securing  her  spray, 
and  turned  without  coming  forward. 

"So  you  have  arrived,  after  all?"  she  greeted  him,  with 
baffling  sweetness. 

He  would  have  held  out  his  hand,  but  both  hers  were  occupied. 

"Not  my  fault  I  couldn't  come  yesterday,"  he  assured  her 
eagerly.  "Did  Dirks  tell  you?  Did  you  —  expect  me?" 

"I  don't  think  —  I  expected  you  till  I  saw  you!" 

She  was  distractingly  mistress  of  herself. 

"An  unkind  hit.  Anyway,  I'm  here  now  —  to  ask  forgive 
ness  and  something  more  — 


410  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Oh,  as  to  forgiveness  —  He  saw  the  blood  stir  under  her 
clear  skin. 

"I  know  I  don't  deserve  it,"  he  admitted  with  a  phenomenal 
humility.  "I  behaved  like  a  cad.  But  —  please  remember  — 
I  was  simply  staggered.  And  you  were  so  dead  keen  on  that 
kid.  I  seemed  to  count  for  nothing.  And  I  thought  you  knew 
—  you  must  know  —  I  love  you.  I  was  hoping  to  tell  you 
that  morning  — 

"And  — yet— ?" 

The  words  fell  like  drops  of  cold  water  into  the  fevered  haste 
of  his  unstudied  speech.  The  look  in  her  eyes,  as  she  stood 
there  —  so  alluring,  so  strangely  unapproachable  —  made  him 
feel  less  than  ever  in  command  of  the  situation. 

"Oh,  can't  you  —  won't  you  understand?"  he  pleaded  with 
genuine  passion.  "I  confess  it  gave  me  a  horrid  jar;  and  your 
inflexible  attitude  made  me  feel  —  it  would  be  useless  to  speak. 
In  fact  —  if  it's  cards  on  the  table,  I  thought  —  if  I  held  off  a 
bit  —  you  might  — 

"Don't  —  please  don't."  She  checked  him  with  a  distressed 
twitch  of  her  brows.  "I  am  not  without  heart.  I  can't  bear 
to  hurt  you.  But  —  it  is  useless." 

"You  have  changed  your  mind  —  about  the  child?  I 
thought  - 

"He  told  you?"  she  queried,  a  soft  light  in  her  eyes. 

"Of  course  he  did.  And  as  the  obstacle  —  the  misunder 
standing  —  has  been  removed  —  will  you  — 

His  eyes  implored  her.  He  held  out  both  hands.  Only  one 
of  hers  was  free,  and  with  it  she  grasped  the  back  of  the  bench 
near  the  pergola. 

"You  don't  seem  to  realize,"  she  said  gently,  "there  still 
remains  the  chief  obstacle  —  myself." 

Even  he  could  not  fail  to  see  the  truth  in  her  eyes,  in  the 
pained  compression  of  her  lips;  and  the  unaccustomed  pang  of 
baulked  desire  made  him  almost  angry. 

"You?  —  Then  what  have  you  been  at  all  this  time?  I 
could  have  sworn  —  have  you  been  fooling  me  from  the  start?" 

"No  —  no."    She  flushed  hotly,  and  her  small,  even  teeth 


HANDMAID  _OF  THE  GODS  411 

imprisoned  her  lip.  "It  is  simply  that  I  took  you  for  —  one 
sort  of  man.  I  find  you  are  another.  I  also  mistook  myself. 
One  is  not  infallible.  And  —  after  what  happened,  I  did  not 
believe  you  could  really  —  care."  She  glanced  at  her  watch. 
"I  have  no  business  to  stay  here  talking.  I  ought  to  be  in 
the  ward." 

"The  ward  can  wait.  Do  sit  down  and  give  me  a  chance. 
I  —  I  can't  take  it  in." 

She  gave  him  an  odd,  direct  look.  "Yet  —  you  have  my 
answer." 

"And  I  refuse  to  accept  a  woman's  'No'  out  of  hand." 

He  clinched  matters  by  sitting  down  himself.  With  a  sigh 
she  followed  suit;  and  he,  resting  an  elbow  on  the  rail,  leaned 
urgently  towards  her.  "In  what  way  am  I  another  sort  of 
man  —  and  since  when?  Have  you  — ?  Has  any  one  — ?  " 

"Quite  the  reverse,"  she  answered  with  a  small,  enigmatic 
smile.  " Give  me  credit  for  a  little  discernment!" 

Had  she  been  other  than  herself  he  could  scarce  have  kept 
his  hands  off  her.  But  this  rose  was  set  about  with  something 
more  intangible  than  thorns.  "Was  your  discernment  asleep 
at  the  start?"  he  pressed  her. 

"Did  you,  at  the  start,  give  it  a  fair  chance?  Or  did  you 
disguise  your  true  self  in  colours  that  were  more  becoming  — 
more  likely  to  suit  my  taste?  Is  it  —  playing  the  game  to  try 
and  steal  a  woman's  heart  that  way?" 

"Did  I  steal  it?"  he  urged,  ignoring  the  indictment  even 
while  he  winced  at  it.  "And  —  is  forgiveness  impossible?  I 
thought  —  if  a  woman  cared  — 

"Forgiveness,  of  course,  is  a  woman's  chief  function," 
Gabrielle  murmured  confidentially  to  her  basket  of  flowers; 
and  he  only  half  detected  the  note  of  irony  in  her  rebuke.  "A 
divine  attribute.  But  —  we  are  also  human.  We  have  our 
idiosyncrasies.  Myself  —  I  can  forgive  much  —  if  there  is 
truth  in  the  inward  parts.  Not  otherwise." 

At  that  he  changed  colour.  He  had  asked  for  it;  and  he  was 
getting  it.  Yet  —  even  so.  he  could  not  accept  irrevocable 
defeat. 


412  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"But  —  if  I  had  spoken  —  that  night?" 

"You  did  not  speak,"  she  reminded  him  with  gentle  in 
flexibility.  "And  —  since  you  force  me  to  be  frank  —  even 
that  night  —  you  were  different.  Next  morning  —  more  so 
still.  Then  your  absence  —  your  long  silence.  If  I  have  come 
to  doubt  you  —  and  myself,  it  is  chiefly  your  own  doing.  Doubt 
in  one  direction  breeds  doubt  everywhere.  I  have  even  won 
dered  —  were  you  sincere  about  wishing  to  play  a  man's  part  in 
the  War?  For  me,  life  is  intensely  real  —  in  work  or  play. 
With  you  it  is  all  laissez-faire.  I  realize  now  —  that  we  could 
no  more  mix  than  fire  and  water.  In  everything  you  say  or  do 
there  is  always  the  one  black  spot  —  self  —  self  — ! " 

She  broke  off.  Approaching  voices  and  footsteps  brought 
her  to  her  feet.  "I  really  must  go  in.  Surely  I  have  said 
enough  —  more  than  enough?" 

"Curse  those  fellows,"  muttered  Van,  obliged  to  follow  suit. 
"Look  here,  I'm  off.  I  can't  face  them  all.  As  for  what  you 
said  —  May  I  write?  " 

"No,  please  —  it  will  only  hurt  us  both." 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  He  held  it  close  and  long;  and  she 
only  just  made  good  her  escape  before  Derek  and  Baird,  coming 
from  the  opposite  direction,  appeared  on  the  scene. 

There  were  exclamations  and  greetings,  and  Baird's  hope 
of  a  drive  was  quenched  by  a  hurried  announcement  that 
Van  had  merely  run  down  on  business  and  must  get  back  at 
once. 

"Business  —  with  me?"  Derek  asked;  and  by  the  look  in  his 
eyes  Van  knew  he  had  heard  all. 

He  nodded,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  Baird,  who  tactfully  effaced 
himself  —  leaving  the  brothers  alone. 

There  was  a  moment  of  strained  silence.  Van  waited  for  a 
lead;  Derek  waited  for  confirmation  of  the  thing  he  could  not 
believe. 

"Well  —  you  seem  mighty  pleased  to  see  me!"  Van  flung 
out  with  a  carelessness  he  was  far  from  feeling.  "I  wrote  — 
didn't  you  expect  me?" 

"No." 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  413 

"Why  the  devil—?" 

"Is  it  necessary  to  ask?" 

Van  —  who  was  suffering  from  a  surfeit  of  home  truths  — 
did  not  press  the  point.  "As  it  happens,  I  might  have  spared 
myself  the  trouble  and  saved  my  petrol,"  he  remarked  in  a 
changed  voice,  frowning  at  the  empty  seat  where  the  ghost  of 
Gabrielle  still  seemed  to  sit  with  her  roses.  "I've  seen  her. 
You  two  interrupted  us.  She  won't  look  at  me,  infant  or  no 
infant.  Laid  it  on  with  a  trowel  in  her  tender  anxiety  to  make 
things  horrid  clear.  The  curse  of  it  is  she's  only  succeeded  in 
making  me  keener  than  ever.  She's  one  in  a  thousand.  I'll 
marry  her  yet." 

He  broke  off  and  glanced  sidelong  at  Derek's  set  face. 

"Heard  from  India  this  mail?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Father  been  laying  it  on  with  a  trowel  also?" 

"He's  very  angry,  of  course.  The  whole  thing  seems  to  have 
come  as  a  shock.  And  I  thought  —  I  hoped  you  had  told  him 
all  about  the  Hospital.  God  knows  how  you  could  take  the 
risk—!" 

"Oh,  go  it!     Kick  a  man  when  he's  down." 

"Sorry.     I  didn't  mean  it  that  way." 

Van  was  manipulating  a  cigarette. 

"That  I'm  hard  hit  over  it  all  goes  without  saying.  But  — 
at  this  moment,  I  find  it  difficult  to  think  of  anything  except 
Miss  de  Vigne.  If  you'd  just  offered  her  your  heart  and  had  it 
returned  with  thanks,  you  might  possibly  understand.  But 
as  I  don't  seem  to  see  you  handing  your  heart  about  on  a 
salver — " 

"My  dear  chap,  I  understand  all  that  right  enough,"  Derek 
struck  in  with  repressed  vehemence.  "What  I  don't  under 
stand  is  — 

"Oh,  shut  it!" 

And  Derek,  nothing  loath,  took  the  elegant  hint. 

"Have  you  seen  Schonberg?"  he  asked. 

"My  God,  yes!  You  were  more  or  less  right  in  that  quarter 
—  if  it  gives  you  any  satisfaction  to  know  it." 


4H  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Me?  Rather  not.  Get  clear  of  him  now,  Van  —  and  keep 
clear." 

Van  groaned.     "I've  had  a  shot  at  it.     But  —  fact  is  — 
there  are  wheels  within  wheels.     I  tell  you,  Dirks,  I'm  in  the 
hell  of  a  hole.     You  don't  even  begin  to  grasp  the  true  inward 
ness  of  my  most  enviable  position.     Of  course,  it's  rotten  hard 
luck  on  Father.     But  I'm  responsible  —  and  all  that  — 

Derek  gave  him  a  quick  look. 

"Quite  so.  That's  why  it's  beyond  me  ...  how  you  could 
ask  Miss  de  Vigne  — 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  I  thought  —  I  hoped  —  she  cared. 
With  her  to  stand  by  me  I  could  somehow  pull  things  through. 
I  say,  Dirks  —  you've  been  stunning  about  it;  and  if  any  of 
this  leaks  out,  you  might  put  in  a  good  word  for  me.  I  don't 
want  her  to  think  me  more  of  a  sweep  than  she  seems  to  do 
already.  There's  something  about  her  —  I've  never  believed 
in  the  high-flown  talk  of  a  woman  lifting  a  man.  It's  mostly 
the  other  way.  But  she  —  if  she  cared  —  if  she'd  only  have  an 
ounce  of  faith  in  me  —  I'm  convinced  she  could  pull  me  up  a 
peg  or  two.  I've  been  smitten  often;  but  I've  never  felt 
that  way  before  — 

He  started.  His  ear  had  caught  the  thud  of  Mark's  crutch 
and  his  dragging  walk  along  the  terrace. 

"God!  Here  comes  Forsyth!  The  last  man  I  want  to  run 
into.  So  long,  old  chap.  Don't  be  more  down  on  me  than 
you  can  help.  I  can't  enlarge  on  my  sensations;  but  the  toad 
beneath  the  harrow  isn't  in  it.  And  I  can  say  to  you  —  what  I 
wouldn't  to  any  one  else  —  I'm  downright  ashamed  of  the 
whole  cursed  affair." 

He  held  out  his  hand  —  an  unusual  event.  Derek  —  feeling 
angry  and  wretched  —  wrung  it  hard. 

"Father  sent  me  that  para,"  he  said.  "But  —  I  want  to 
know  more." 

"Well  —  I'll  make  out  some  sort  of  a  tale.  Or  you  might 
square  a  few  days'  leave.  Here  comes  your  almighty  Mark. 
I  can  nip  out  through  the  arch.  My  car's  in  the  drive." 

Three  minutes  later  the  great  Rolls-Royce  shot  through  the 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  415 

iron  gateway  full  speed,  and  down  the  long  slope  to  the  high 
road.  The  swiftness  and  the  movement  were  a  very  real  relief 
after  the  emotional  strain  he  had  passed  through.  But  they 
sharply  recalled  his  fatuous  sensations  on  the  downward  journey, 
his  foretaste  of  the  supreme  moment  that  never  came  off. 

It  was  one  of  Van's  foibles  that,  even  in  seriousness,  he  could 
seldom  express  himself  seriously;  but  his  simile  of  toad  and 
harrow  was  less  extravagant  than  it  sounded.  Little  used 
to  denial  or  criticism,  he  was  suffering  acutely  from  the  un 
familiar  sense  of  helplessness  in  the  grip  of  adverse  circumstance; 
and  his  pain  was  intensified  by  the  gnawing  of  the  little  black 
worm  —  self -pity.  With  all  his  knowledge  of  the  world,  he 
lacked  the  deeper  knowledge  of  life  that  includes  capacity  for 
suffering  —  lifts  it,  almost,  to  a  fine  art;  and  he  would  probably 
go  to  his  grave  lacking  it  still. 

His  vanity  and  self-esteem  had  been  badly  battered.  His 
heart  was  seriously  involved.  That  he,  of  all  men,  should  love, 
unloved  — ! 

"By  God!"  he  thought  with  a  sudden  uprush  of  confidence 
renewed.  "I'll  force  her  to  respect  me  yet.  If  I  chuck  my 
job  to  join  the  Army  it  will  be  proof  positive  I'm  dead  in  earnest. 
I  believe  she  could  love  any  sort  of  blighter  in  khaki." 

It  was  a  magnificently  drastic  resolve;  and  it  served  him  well 
as  an  anodyne  during  the  long  drive  back  to  town. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Well,  it  is  lost  now.     Well  —  you  must  bear; 
But  hush!    For  you,  can  be  no  despair. 

BROWNING 

AND  while  Van's  wounded  egoism  writhed  under  the  unaccus 
tomed  pangs  of  refusal,  of  seeing  himself,  for  once,  as  another 
saw  him,  Gabrielle  was  busy  arranging  her  roses  in  the  morning 
room,  that  served  for  meals,  since  the  dining-room  had  been 
given  over  to  the  soldiers.  She  could  not  bear  hurting  men; 
and  he  was  not  the  first  whom  she  had  been  obliged  to  hurt  in 
that  particular  way.  But  on  this  occasion  —  no  denying  it  — 
regret  was  tempered  with  relief  at  having  got  it  over.  The 
knowledge  that  this  blow  must  be  dealt,  and  dealt  decisively, 
had  been  weighing  upon  her  all  the  week;  dimming  the  glory  of 
her  own  private  discovery ;  her  tentative  hope  that  it  was  shared 
by  Some  One  Else,  who  had  driven  Gabrielle  Honore  —  with 
her  prudent  plans  and  contempt  of  thrills  —  incontinently 
from  the  field.  Honesty  compelled  her  to  admit  that,  from  the 
first,  her  heart  had  secretly  inclined  to  him,  while  her  brain  — 
intent  on  practical  politics  —  discreetly  ignored  the  fact.  Now 
that  he  had  unconsciously  revealed  his  soul  to  her,  she  could 
ignore  it  no  longer.  And  she  was  glad  —  immeasurably  glad. 
She  knew,  now,  the  lover's  keen-edged  joy  in  the  simplest 
actions;  the  feeling  of  life  so  sharpened  that  sights  and  sounds, 
the  most  familiar,  smite  the  senses  like  a  revelation.  She  dis 
pensed  rations  and  shirts  and  socks  in  a  transfigured  world  — 
And  her  woman's  instinct  told  her  that  the  discovery  was 
mutual,  though  Derek  had  given  no  sign  beyond  the  negative 
one  of  seeming  to  avoid  opportunities  for  talk.  What  matter? 
Merely  to  be  with  him  sufficed;  to  hear  his  deep,  deliberate 
voice;  to  see,  with  enlightened  eyes,  his  familiar  face,  his  blunt 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS 

features  worn  fine  by  more  than  physical  suffering.  The  seal 
of  it  on  his  lips  and  the  shadow  of  it  in  his  eyes,  gave  his 
whole  aspect  a  sort  of  strained  nobility  that  sharply  caught 
at  her  heart.  Wonderful  to  discover  how  she  loved  his  every 
trait:  —  the  critical,  yet  far  from  passionless,  detachment 
that  made  his  judgment  so  singularly  just  and  true;  the 
very  streak  in  him  that  might  make  him  slow  to  come  for 
ward  even  when  he  knew  the  way  was  clear.  A  marvel  that 
they  should  have  lived  so  long  under  one  roof  without  find 
ing  each  other  out!  The  self-evident  answer  was  —  Van. 
Small  wonder  if  his  pain  —  and  her  own  pain  in  inflicting  it 
-  were  crowded,  all  too  soon,  out  of  her  very  much  occupied 
mind  and  heart. 

After  lunch  she  took  half  a  dozen  of  her  charges  down  to 
fish  in  the  Wynch.  Derek  was  not  among  them.  She  had 
not  seen  him  since  that  distressful  interlude  in  the  rose  garden. 
Baird  mentioned  casually  that  Mr.  Blount  had  turned  up  to  see 
his  brother  on  business;  but  had  gone  straight  back  without 
giving  them  a  treat.  Then  she  knew  whose  footsteps  had  cut 
short  her  ordeal:  and  again  —  she  was  glad.  At  that  moment 
of  high  tension,  Van  could  not  possibly  have  kept  his  own 
counsel  —  if  she  knew  anything  of  the  man. 

Returning  later  to  the  house,  she  found  two  letters  on  the 
salver:  Mrs.  Macnair  and  her  stepfather.  She  carried  them  to 
her  room,  and  sitting  in  her  chair  by  the  window  opened  Burl- 
ton's  envelope  first. 

MY  DARLING  GAY  [she  read], — 

Your  last  welcome  letter  has  remained  too  long  unanswered.  The 
fact  is  —  I  have  bad  news  for  you,  and  I  have  been  shirking  a  painful 
job.  It  is  about  your  money  —  your  'dot'  — 

She  caught  her  breath  sharply  and  her  eye  raced  over  the  rest  of 
the  sheet. 

I  ought  to  have  told  you  everything  long  ago.  But  I  kept  hoping 
it  would  be  a  case  of  all's  well  that  ends  well.  Now  you  say  you  are 
contemplating  marriage,  I  can  wait  no  longer.  Forgive  me,  if  you 
can,  my  dearest,  and  believe  that  I  have  had  one  motive  only  —  to 
do  the  best  for  you. 


418  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

The  facts  are  as  follows:  Your  dear  mother,  as  you  know,  made 
me  her  sole  executor.  I  left  the  interest  on  her  money  to  accumulate 
for  you  —  Canadian  bonds,  safe  as  houses.  Later  on,  some  big  deals 
I  had  on  with  Schonberg  brought  me  in  a  tidy  lump  of  capital; 
and  my  first  thought  was,  to  add  part  of  it  to  your  marriage 
portion.  Schonberg  was  putting  his  own  stuff  into  a  big  German 
concern  with  the  Government  behind  it;  and  he  was  keen  I  should 
follow  suit.  I  said  half  the  money  was  going  in  with  your  bonds. 
He  said:  'Why  not  transfer  the  lot?  Higher  interest.  Safe  as 
any  number  of  houses.'  I  havered  over  it  for  some  time;  but  in 
the  end  I  gave  in.  I  admit,  in  those  days,  he  had  a  queer  kind 
of  hold  on  me. 

You  remember  I  told  you  I  had  made  a  better  arrangement  for  you. 
But  I  did  not  say  it  was  connected  with  Schonberg  or  Germany  be 
cause  of  your  prejudice  against  both.  I  thought  —  why  should  you 
lose  good  money  because  of  a  mere  girl's  whim?  We  get  to  think 
too  much  in  terms  of  money,  we  business  men.  And  I  wasn't  the 
only  man  in  England  who  believed  we  should  never  fight  Germany. 
I  knew  something  of  the  financial  and  commercial  complications; 
and  I  believed  —  like  many  of  my  betters  —  that  the  purse  strings 
ruled  the  world. 

Then  the  War  came  —  and  I  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  you  the 
truth.  So  I  paid  you  the  dividends  myself.  I  felt  sure  it  would  not 
last  more  than  six  months  or  a  year  —  the  purse  strings  again. 

But  I'm  rambling.  The  point  is,  I  want  to  do  all  I  can  to  mend 
the  muddle  I  have  made  of  your  affairs,  with  the  best  intentions  on 
earth.  I  only  wish  I  could  repay  you  the  lot  out  of  my  own  capital. 
But  a  large  part  of  my  money  went  the  same  way  as  yours,  with  the 
result  that  I  am  a  good  deal  more  indebted  to  Schonberg  than  I 
quite  care  about  —  in  the  circumstances.  The  truth  is  he  has  man 
aged  to  secure  a  large  preponderance  of  shares  for  himself  and  his 
friends.  That  means  increasing  control  of  the  votes  and  the  capital. 
I  tell  you  this,  because  any  repayment  I  make  at  present  could  only 
consist  of  transferring  shares  to  your  name;  and  I  doubt  if  you  would 
care  to  become  a  shareholder  in  the  firm  as  it  now  stands.  Lord 
Avonleigh  sold  out  long  ago.  But  young  Mr.  Blount  has  a  few 
shares.  He  seems  to  be  down  there  a  good  deal.  May  I  venture  to 
hope  he  is  not  to  be  the  happy  man? 

Well,  my  darling  girl  —  I  want  you  to  let  me  go  on  paying  your 
dividends.  It  is  the  best  I  can  offer  in  the  way  of  reparation;  and  I 
can  manage  all  right  about  the  boys,  who  have  a  good  deal  to  forgive 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  419 

their  old  Dad.     So,  for  that  matter,  have  you.     But,  for  the  sake 
of  our  dear  Dead,  let  me  do  what  I  can  to  atone. 

Ever  and  always  your  loving  Dad 

JOHN  BURLTON 


Those  last  lines  calmed,  a  little,  the  pain  and  anger  in  her 
heart,  and  brought  stinging  tears  to  her  eyes.  The  whole  thing 
was  so  bewildering,  so  unexpected,  such  a  pitiless  cold  douche 
upon  her  fervid  hopes  and  dreams  — • ! 

Her  hand  that  held  the  letter  dropped  into  her  lap;  and  she 
sat  there  motionless,  in  the  June  sunshine,  looking  blindly  out 
over  the  wonderful  downward  and  upward  sweep  of  pine  tops, 
that  was  Mark's  peculiar  delight  and  pride,  while  the  waters  of 
bitterness  flowed  over  her  soul. 

For  money,  in  detail,  she  cared  little,  as  do  many  generous 
natures,  who  have  never  known  the  relentless  grind  of  life's 
machinery  without  it.  But,  in  the  form  of  her  marriage  por 
tion,  it  was  the  cornerstone  of  things.  Without  her  'dot,'  she 
could  not,  or  would  not  marry.  Neither  would  she  consent  to 
be  a  drain  on  her  stepfather  at  the  expense  of  Jacko's  brothers, 
whose  prospects  had  dwindled  woefully  as  it  was. 

She  had  often  felt  irritated  —  not  unreasonably  —  with  her 
lovable,  limited  stepfather;  but  to-day,  for  the  first  time,  she 
felt  angry,  bitterly  angry;  and  to  feel  so,  hurt  her  almost  as 
much  as  her  own  loss.  Those  bonds  were  not  his  to  meddle 
with.  The  more  implicit  her  mother's  trust  in  him,  the  less 
his  right  to  touch  them,  even  with  unimpeachable  intentions. 
On  that  score,  she  was  sternly  emphatic.  And  —  it  was  not 
like  him.  It  was  simply  one  more  proof  of  Schonberg's  fatal 
dominion  over  him,  body  and  soul  — 

The  commanding  tones  of  the  gong  startled  her  out  of  her 
trance.  There  were  people  to  tea;  and  hurriedly  tidying  her 
hair,  she  resolved  to  escape  as  soon  as  possible.  A  long  lonely 
tramp  would  give  her  breathing  space  to  confront  everything, 
including  her  fatally  awakened  heart,  and  to  make  all  the 
necessary  decisions. 

Tea  was  on  the  terrace.    Sir  Nevil  and  Lady  Sinclair  had 


420  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

brought  three  Indian  officers,  and  Flora  Melrose  some  con 
valescents  from  Westover.  Half  a  dozen  of  her  own  men  were 
there,  Derek  among  them.  In  such  a  crowd  it  was  easy  to 
avoid  him;  but  though  she  set  the  width  of  the  terrace  between 
the  image  of  herself  and  the  image  of  him,  the  actual  Derek  so 
persistently  intruded  on  her  consciousness  that  it  was  almost  as 
if  her  senses  were  deceived.  Defying  his  intrusion,  she  con 
centrated  her  attention  on  a  remarkably  cultivated  young 
Indian  officer  whom  she  had  already  met  in  Paris.  But  at  the 
first  opportunity  she  discarded  him,  caught  Sheila  at  an  isolated 
moment,  and  said  quietly:  "If  you  can  spare  me,  dear,  I'm  dy 
ing  for  a  tramp  up  to  the  ridge." 

Sheila  looked  concerned.  It  was  unlike  Gay  to  desert  a  ter 
race  full  of  soldiers. 

"All  by  your  lonely?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  I've  some  stiff  thinking  to  do  —  with  the  help  of  my 
pines!" 

Sheila's  smile  expressed  amused  understanding.  "Run  along, 
then,"  she  said,  "to  the  only  committee  you  don't  despise! 
And  come  back  filled  with  wisdom." 

So  she  went.  And  she  knew  that  the  image  of  Derek  watched 
her  go;  and  she  felt  the  actual  Derek  tugging  her  heart.  What 
would  he  think  if  he  guessed  that  this  transitory  going  was  but 
the  first  step  towards  going  altogether?  For  to  that  resolve  she 
had  come;  and,  hardened  in  that  resolve,  by  contact  with  the 
'stern  mother  whom  no  cry  can  melt,'  she  was  minded  to 
return  — 

On  she  walked  and  on;  down  the  broad  main  pathway, 
carpeted  with  moss  and  clumps  of  coarse  grass.  On  either  side 
of  her  crowded  and  receded  the  trunks  of  lofty  old  pines,  with 
their  companionable  illusion  of  movement,  as  if  they  were 
treacling  a  measure  of  some  slow  and  stately  dance.  The  wester 
ing  sun  painted  their  stems  rust  red  and  a  light  south  wind  stirred 
their  dark  summits.  Gnats  buzzed  up  and  down  like  motes  in 
a  beam.  Forest  flies  hung  motionless  in  a  dazzle  of  gold.  It 
was  a  magical  evening;  an  evening  to  catch  an  echo  from  the 
inner  harmony  of  things;  to  fling  wide  the  doorway  of  the  heart 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  421 

and  bid  love  enter  in;  not  to  bar  the  gate  against  him  for  lack 
of  a  marriage  dower  — 

None  of  them  would  understand:  not  even  Sheila.  In  the 
depths  of  her  own  being  there  were  elements  that  rebelled. 
But  the  fact  remained  that  she  was  her  father's  daughter: 
in  nothing  more  so  than  in  this  proud,  practical  attitude  to 
wards  marriage.  And  there  is  no  more  stubborn  customer 
than  unreasoning  inherited  instinct  —  a  racial  instinct  to  boot. 
She  could  only  pray  that  Derek's  heart  was  a  less  volcanic 
organ  than  she  had  discovered  her  own  to  be.  Happy  for  him 
that  he  had  no  drop  of  passionate  Latin  blood  in  his  veins. 
For  herself,  she  must  take  up  fresh  work  elsewhere  —  France 
for  choice.  She  would  accept  a  small  allowance:  some  measure 
of  independence  she  must  possess.  Thank  God  she  had  a 
brain  and  a  catholic  love  of  her  kind.  For  all  that,  in  her  eyes, 
marriage  was  the  end  of  ends  —  whether  for  man  or  woman; 
now  more  imperatively  so  than  ever  — 

At  last  she  reached  the  ridge.  The  great  pinewood  lay  be 
hind  her;  and  before  her  a  wide  stretch  of  open  country  all 
misty  in  the  gold  dust  of  evening.  With  a  sigh  from  the  depths 
she  flung  herself  on  the  heather,  and  lay  there,  lost  to  all  sense 
of  time  — 


CHAPTER  XIV 

No  heart  to  dare,  is  no  heart  to  love. 

GEORGE  MEREDITH 

AT  Wynchcombe  Friars  they  were  first  puzzled,  then  a  trifle 
anxious,  as  the  dinner  hour  drew  near  and  still  no  sign  of 
Gabrielle.  A  sense  of  time  and  a  sense  of  duty  were  both  so 
strong  in  her,  that  she  would  never  be  oblivious  of  either  except 
for  a  very  serious  reason. 

So  said  Sheila  to  Derek,  whom  she  found  hanging  about  on 
the  terrace,  looking  restless  and  unhappy  for  no  ostensible 
cause.  If  she  had  a  true-lover's  inkling  that  their  thoughts 
were  travelling  in  the  same  direction,  it  was  not  for  her  to  em 
barrass  him  by  letting  him  know  it.  She  and  Mark,  having 
heard  of  Van's  meteoric  visit,  had  achieved  a  simple  sum  in 
arithmetic  to  their  entire  satisfaction;  and  Mark,  in  his  vigorous 
fashion,  had  expressed  a  hope  that  Derek  would  at  last  give 
up  'playing  the  ruddy  altruist'  on  account  of  his  unworthy 
brother. 

"'Love,  the  sole-permitted,  sings  sovereignly  of  I  and  me,'" 
he  quoted  from  his  favourite  poet.  "High  time  old  Derek 
gave  the  'Sole-permitted'  a  fighting  chance." 

Perhaps  Derek  was  of  the  same  mind.  At  least  he  did  not 
attempt  to  hide  his  concern  from  Sheila's  sympathetic  eyes. 

"D'you  know  where  she  went?"  he  asked. 

"She  said  —  to  the  ridge." 

He  hesitated.  "Shall  I  —  take  a  stroll  in  that  direction?" 
he  suggested,  looking  away  from  her. 

"Can  you  walk  so  far?" 

"I  can  try.     It  might  not  be  necessary.     May  I  go?" 

He  faced  her  squarely  now  and  there  was  no  mistaking  the 
look  in  his  eyes. 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  423 

"Yes  —  go!    And  —  good  luck  to  you.     I'll  tell  Mark." 

"Thanks,"  said  inexpressive  Derek;  and  went  down  the 
shallow  stone  steps,  scarcely  limping  at  all,  walking  like  a  man 
in  a  dream. 

As  he  entered  the  wood  —  where  the  level  light  flung  lengthen 
ing  shadows  —  he  was  beset  by  that  strange  yet  familiar  sense  of 
knowing  precisely  what  would  happen  next,  of  having  been  there 
before. 

A  June  evening;  a  pine  forest;  a  girl  astray;  his  offer  to  go  in 
search  of  her  — 

Vividly,  startlingly,  it  all  flashed  back  upon  him.  Even  to 
Mrs.  Maggot's  cynical  remark:  "She  knows,  well  enough,  if 
she  stops  out  there,  you'll  go  and  look  for  her." 

The  coincidence  amazed  him.  It  also  made  him  rather 
anxious.  Was  the  omen  good  or  bad,  he  wondered;  and  the 
next  moment  chid  himself  for  superstitious  folly.  He  had 
hardly  got  over  his  bewilderment,  his  unashamed  relief  at  her 
refusal  of  Van;  and  its  possible  significance  had  not  yet  dawned 
on  him.  But — as  astonishment  subsided,  Hope  whispered: 
"There  is  just  a  chance  —  why  not?"  And  that  whisper  had 
prompted  his  bold  request.  He  had  flung  away  so  many 
chances.  This  one,  at  least,  he  would  seize  —  and  dare  Fate  to 
do  her  wrorst. 

He  felt  half  afraid  he  had  done  for  himself  by  that  unpre 
meditated  impulse  to  tell  her  all  about  Lois.  Since  then,  he 
had  been  aware  of  a  change  in  her,  that  he  could  only  feel  but 
not  define.  Well  —  very  soon  —  when  he  found  her  —  he 
would  know. 

And  all  the  while,  at  the  back  of  things,  his  troublesome 
conscience  nagged  at  him,  insisting  that  he  must  first  make 
quite  sure  there  was  no  more  hope  for  Van.  His  brother's 
parting  appeal,  with  its  rare  mingling  of  humility  and  genuine 
feeling,  had  left  a  deep  impression  —  as  it  was  doubtless  meant 
to  do.  Van  was,  after  all,  heir  to  Avonleigh  and  its  great  tradi 
tions.  If  Miss  de  Vigne  had  it  in  her  power  to  make  a  finer, 
more  stable  man  of  him,  it  behoved  him,  Derek  —  if  only  for 
love  of  Avonleigh  —  to  do  what  he  could.  Failing  that  — ! 


424  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

He  broke  off,  his  heart  gave  a  great  leap  and  all  the  strength 
seemed  to  melt  out  of  him. 

In  the  distance  he  had  sighted  a  blue  figure  hurrying  down  the 
pathway  from  the  ridge.  The  next  moment  she  saw  him;  and 
she,  too,  came  to  a  dead  stop.  For  a  second,  it  seemed  almost 
as  if  she  would  turn  back  or  strike  off  among  the  trees.  Did 
she  actually  want  to  avoid  him?  Ought  he  not  to  have  come? 

Impossible  to  regret  it.  But  because  of  her  hesitation,  and 
also  because  of  his  wretched  physical  disabilities  in  moments  of 
stress,  he  did  not  go  forward;  merely  stood  watching  her  ap 
proach.  Every  line  of  her  was  grace,  lightly  clothed  with 
dignity,  instinct  with  the  joie  de  vivre  that  radiated  from  her 
like  an  aura.  She  held  her  head  a  little  higher  than  usual  as 
if  mentally  defying  some  one  or  some  thing;  and  he  put  up  a 
prayer  that  it  might  not  be  himself.  He  had  not  an  idea  what 
he  meant  to  say  when  she  reached  him.  He  felt  as  if  the  im 
pact  of  their  spirits  must  be  electrical;  that,  in  a  flash,  he  would 
know  and  be  known  — 

But  life  is  a  clumsy  dramatist;  and,  when  the  moment  came, 
Gabrielle  solved  his  difficulty  by  saying  in  a  rather  breathless 
rush:  "I'm  so  sorry!  Wicked  of  me.  Did  they  send  you  to 
look  for  the  sheep  that  was  lost?" 

In  spite  of  constriction,  he  somehow  found  his  normal  voice: 
"They  didn't  send  me.  Sheila  was  worried  and  —  I  offered  to 
come.  It's  dinner  time.  You  must  be  hungry.  You  hardly 
touched  your  tea."  He  gravely  produced  a  stick  of  chocolate. 
"Better  sit  down  a  minute  and  eat  that." 

Her  smile  had  a  tremor  in  it.     "How  like  you!" 

But  she  accepted  it  gratefully;  and  no  less  gratefully  availed 
herself  of  a  pine  stump  that  formed  a  providential  stool.  The 
electric  shock,  though  it  produced  no  lightning,  had  been  more 
than  a  lover's  fantasy. 

He  leaned  against  a  neighbouring  trunk  and  watched  her, 
wondering  —  what  next?  Right  over  her  hung  a  vast  white 
cloud  all  sunset-flushed.  A  three-quarter  moon  was  coming  to 
lif  e.  It  was  their  moment.  Every  nerve  in  him  rebelled  against 
having  to  mention  Van. 


HANDMAID  OF  THE   GODS  425 

"Have  you  been  tramping  all  the  time?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"No.  Mostly  lying  on  the  heather."  She  indicated  her 
bare  left  wrist.  "I  forgot  my  watch.  But  that's  no  excuse. 
I  ought  to  have  known." 

In  spite  of  her,  a  small  sigh  escaped;  and  he  grew  bolder. 

"  Were  you  worrying?    Was  it  —  ?  " 

She  looked  up  quickly  and  saw  the  knowledge  in  his  eyes. 

"He  told  you?" 

"Yes.    I  confess  —  I  was  surprised.     I  thought  — 

"You  thought  you  had  successfully  smoothed  the  way  for 
him—?" 

Derek  said  nothing. 

And  because  silence  was  dangerous,  she  went  on:  "I  hated 
having  to  hurt  him  so.  But  —  he  persisted  — 

"Poor  fellow!  I  don't  think  he  quite  knew  what  to  make 
of  —  a  refusal.  He's  not  been  reared  on  refusals  —  of  any 
kind." 

"Poor  fellow!"  she  echoed  without  irony.  "There  is  much 
virtue  in  them." 

"But  in  this  case,"  he  ventured,  "the  loss  altogether  out 
weighs  the  gain." 

Her  expressive  eyebrows  twitched.  She  began  to  suppose 
herself  mistaken,  after  all.  "Are  you  —  commissioned  —  to 
speak  for  him?  "  she  asked.  "  Do  you  really  think  — ?  " 

"  I  think  "  —  he  plunged  desperately  —  "  how  can  I  help  think 
ing  that  a  wife  • —  like  yourself  —  might  be  the  making  of  Van. 
He  so  obviously  needs  some  stable  purpose,  some  clear  inspira 
tion  in  his  life.  Now  —  he's  utterly  cut  up.  I  wouldn't  won 
der  — •  if  he  tried  again." 

"Oh,  no  — no." 

Derek's  fingers  gripped  the  crutch  handle  of  his  stick.  But 
she  did  not  notice  it.  She  was  chewing  thoughtfully,  looking 
away  among  the  trees,  marvelling  at  her  fatuous  mistake  and 
telling  herself  she  ought  to  feel  relieved. 

"But  —  surely  —  at  one  time — ?"  he  persisted:  and  she 
could  almost  have  arisen  and  struck  him. 

"At  one  time  —  yes,"  she  agreed  in  measured  tones.     "But 


426  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

now  —  emphatically,  no.  I  am  not  a  mere  weathercock.  I 
was  blind.  Now  I  see.  I  have  partly  to  thank  my  piou-pion 
for  that;  partly  —  some  one  else.  I  don't  presume  to  judge 
your  brother.  He  is  clever  —  charming  —  up  to  a  point.  But 
marriage  —  no.  He  has  every  recommendation  —  except  him 
self.  Oh,  don't  let's  talk  about  it."  The  gold  flecks  in  her 
eyes  were  alight.  "He  is  —  your  brother.  You  have  done 
all  you  can  for  him.  But  please  understand,  it  is  useless.  I 
know,  now  —  he  is  not  the  kind  of  man  I  would  dream  of 
marrying." 

He  was  silent  a  moment;  his  inarticulateness  alive  with  the 
ardour  of  his  hope.  And  at  last  —  purely  on  impulse  he  spoke. 
"What  kind  of  man  —  I  wonder  —  would  you  dream  of  marry- 
ing?" 

The  speculative  quiet  of  his  voice  effectually  belied  him. 

"Oh,  his  very  opposite  —  in  every  way — !"  she  flung  out 
with  heated  emphasis.  Then,  her  cheeks  on  fire,  she  rose 
abruptly.  "But  there's  no  question  of  marriage  —  now.  And 
we  must  hurry  back.  You  said  —  Sheila  was  worried." 

Without  a  word,  he  moved  forward  and  stood  confronting 
her  —  a  changed  Derek. 

"Sheila  will  know  you  are  safe  —  with  me.  And  after  all 
you  have  said  —  you  must  wait  and  hear  —  what  I  have  to 
say." 

His  tone  had  more  of  command  in  it  than  appeal.  His  whole 
face  was  alive,  as  she  had  never  seen  it  yet;  and  the  restrained 
force  of  the  man  so  emanated  from  him  that  —  although  she 
had  the  whole  space  of  the  wood  and  knew  he  would  not  lay  a 
hand  on  her  —  to  move  aside  and  go  past  him  seemed  almost 
a  physical  impossibility. 

Seeing  her  hesitate  and  colour  hotly,  he  added  with  a  new  and 
disarming  gentleness:  "Witt  you  listen  —  Even  if  it's  no  use? 
I  must  speak  —  now  — 

He  paused  to  steady  his  voice.  This  time  she  saw  how 
sharply  he  gripped  the  crutch  of  his  stick;  and  the  change  in 
him,  the  volcanic  response  of  her  own  heart,  blinded  her  momen 
tarily,  to  all  lesser  things. 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  427 

Unseen  hands  were  wrenching  her  this  way  and  that;  and  to 
ease  their  mutual  strain  she  cried  out  impatiently:  "Oh,  why 
have  you,  all  this  time,  been  playing  his  hand  —  pleading  his 
cause  — ?" 

A  half  smile  flickered  in  Derek's  eyes.  "There  didn't  seem 
to  be  —  any  other  cause.  And  naturally  I  wished  —  the  best 
for  him.  —  How  could  I  imagine  — ?  He's  always  been  the 
favoured  one  — 

"Not  here!"  she  flashed  with  decision. 

"That's  only  because  Mark  is  my  best  friend." 

"It's  not.  It's  because  their  standards  are  real  ones.  They 
don't  use  the  world's  yard  measure  here.  But,  oh  —  where's 
the  use  of  talking,  when  everything  has  gone  to  pieces?  That's 
why  I  came  away  —  to  escape  —  from  myself  —  from  you  — 

"  Gabrielle  I "  He  spoke  her  name  with  no  loverly  hesitation, 
real  or  feigned,  but  with  a  passion  of  tenderness  and  protest, 
and  with  the  true  French  intonation  she  loved.  "Are  you  — 
crazed?" 

"I  wish  I  was!"  Her  voice  shook;  and  she  drew  the  fatal 
letter  out  of  her  pocket.  "I've  heard  from  Dad  —  all  my 
money  —  my  marriage  portion  —  clean  gone.  Read  it  — 
please.  It's  too  long  —  too  maddening  to  explain  — 

He  took  the  letter,  saw  it  was  a  long  one,  and  said  gently: 
"Sit  down,  please." 

It  was  a  luxury  to  obey  him,  even  trivially,  when  he  spoke 
and  looked  like  that.  Also,  she  foresaw  a  battle  —  and  she 
would  need  all  her  strength.  Would  he  be  strong  enough,  she 
wondered,  to  overmaster  her  pride,  her  unreasoned  conviction 
that  she  could  not,  empty-handed,  give  herself  to  any  man. 
Or  would  he  be  too  diffident  —  too  scrupulous  — ? 

It  was  precisely  that  mingling  of  diffidence  and  still  strength 
that  she  so  loved  in  him:  and  one  could  not  always  tell  which 
would  prevail. 

While  he  read,  her  gaze  never  left  his  face.  She  saw  his 
frown  deepen,  his  resolute  lower  lip  drawn  in.  Then,  un 
expectedly,  he  looked  up  and  saw  —  before  she  could  veil  it  — 
her  heart  mirrored  in  her  eyes. 


428  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

He  closed  his  own  a  moment,  as  if  a  blaze  of  sunlight  had 
flashed  in  them.  Then  he  said  quietly:  "Schonberg  again! 
They  ought  to  make  it  good  —  between  them.  But  —  I  am 
still  mystified.  If  it's  a  mere  matter  of  money,  why  should 
you  so  desperately  need  to  escape  —  from  yourself  —  from 
me  —  ?  I  warn  you"  —he  added,  lower  still  —  "the  last  is 
impossible." 

"Oh,  but  —  can't  you  understand?"  Instinctively  she  rose 
to  combat  him.  "  It's  not  mere  money  —  it's  my  marriage 
portion.  No  self-respecting  Frenchwoman  would  marry  with 
out  it.  And  —  I  am  French  —  very  much  so,  in  this  respect." 

"But  7  am  English,"  he  retorted;  and  the  thrill  of  pride  in 
his  tone  went  through  her  like  a  note  of  organ  music.  "Natur 
ally,  I  regret,  I  resent  the  loss  —  for  you.  For  myself,  I 
don't  care  whether  you  come  to  me  with  twenty  thousand  in 
bonds  or  a  five-pound  note  — 

"But  7  care  more  intensely  than  I  can  make  you  understand. 
For  me,  it  upsets  the  balance  of  things.  The  woman's  con 
tribution  is  a  privilege  —  a  duty :  and  if  you  are  to  have  the 
small  estate,  you  must,  all  the  more,  look  to  the  future.  The 
idea  is  bred  in  my  bones.  And  Mother  wisely  encouraged  it. 
She  thought  it  right  and  proper." 

"So  it  is  —  in  principle.  But  when  it  amounts  to  putting 
the  cart  before  the  horse  — 

"Still  a  principle  is  a  principle,"  insisted  logical  France, 
shaken  a  little,  yet  unconvinced. 

He  sighed.  "You  have  me  there.  But  this  one,  thank  God, 
is  not  bred  in  my  bones.  It  is  yourself  I  want.  Neither  less 
nor  more.  I  can't  offer  you  all  that  Van  could  offer.  I  can 
only  work  —  and  do  my  utmost  to  make  up  to  you.  But  of 
course "  —  diffidence  tripped  him  up  —  "if  my  solitary  con 
tribution  is  —  not  good  enough  — 

" Derek!     If  you  are  going  to  be  cruel  — ! " 

She  made  a  move  as  if  to  slip  past  him.  But,  quick  as 
thought,  he  dropped  his  stick  and  caught  her  hands  in  both 
his  own. 

"It  is  you  who  are  cruel."    His  voice  was  impatient,  almost 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  429 

angry.  "Standing  there  —  splitting  hairs  about  money,  when 
you've  practically  admitted  —  •  Oh,  my  dear  —  don't  be  a 
fool!"  He  checked  himself  and  reddened  furiously.  "For 
give  me!  I  didn't  mean  that  — 

"You  did!  And  it  was  lovely  of  you  to  say  it !"  Her  mouth 
quivered.  Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  All  her  defences  were 
down. 

"I'd  far  rather  you  called  me  a  fool  than  an  angel  — " 

"  But  you  are  an  angel. " 

"No  —  no!    Don't  spoil  it,  please." 

"It's  you  who  are  spoiling  it.  Who's  using  the  world's  yard 
measure  this  time?  Now  we've  got  at  the  truth,  nothing  else 
counts  —  in  heaven  or  earth." 

He  dropped  her  hands  and  opened  his  arms  —  mutely  be 
seeching. 

"Oh,  Derek,"  she  breathed.     "It's  utterly  wrong." 

"It's  utterly  right,"  he  countered,  his  eyes  deep  in  hers: 
and  with  a  low  sound,  half  speech,  half  sob,  she  leaned  to  him  — 

Enough  of  words.  They  had  reached  the  heart  of  truth. 
A  new  and  unresented  limit  had  been  placed  upon  her  life. 
And  while  he  stood  holding  her  to  him  —  as  a  man  holds  the 
most  sacred  thing  on  earth  —  all  the  repressed  force  and  fire 
of  him  seemed  to  pass  silently  from  him  to  her.  There  is  an 
electricity  of  the  spirit;  lightning  flashes  of  vision,  of  com 
munion  vouchsafed  to  hearts  charged  with  a  great  passion, 
greatly  controlled.  It  is  the  gift  of  gifts  to  those  who  have  not 
squandered  their  capacity  for  emotion  by  the  way. 

To  Gabrielle,  it  seemed  an  age  —  a  wonderful  golden  age  — 
that  he  held  her  thus;  without  speaking  or  moving  or  attempt 
ing  to  kiss  her.  Only  she  could  feel  his  heart  beating  in  slow, 
uneven  strokes  against  her  own. 

At  last  he  loosened  his  hold  a  little.  "Gabrielle,"  he  whis 
pered,  his  mouth  close  to  her  hair.  "Not  repenting?  Was  I 
rough  —  did  I  force  your  hand?" 

For  answer,  she  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him;  her  eyes 
mistily  tender,  her  heart  exultant,  her  reasonable  brain,  at 
the  back  of  it  all,  intrusively  demanding  —  why  this  ecstasy 


430  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

of  contact  with  one  only  human  being  of  all  the  millions  on 
earth  — ? 

And  as  if  her  lips  had  asked  that  impermissible  question, 
Derek  suddenly  caught  her  close  again  —  and  kissed  them  .  .  . 

Leisurely  and  happily  they  walked  homeward  through  the 
wood;  hand  in  hand  like  a  pair  of  children. 

The  sunset  glow  had  faded,  and  as  day  waned,  moss  and  fern 
and  whortleberry  seemed  to  emit  a  still  green  radiance  of  their 
own.  Ebbing  waves  of  twilight  and  the  gossamer  of  young  moon 
beams  conjured  the  open  spaces  of  the  forest  into  isles  of  en 
chantment.  The  gnats  had  made  an  end  of  their  dancing. 
The  south  wind  had  dropped  asleep.  Not  a  sound  anywhere 
save  a  hushed  whisper  in  the  tree  tops  or  the  chance  low  note 
of  a  bird.  And,  pale  gold  among  the  shadowy  pine  stems,  the 
moon  herself  accompanied  them;  now  hidden,  now  emerging, 
pencilling  with  light  the  edges  of  fern  and  trunk  and  bough  — 
a  spirit,  intimately  linked  with  earth. 

For  a  time  the  silence  of  a  great  content  enfolded  them.  It 
was  joy  and  wonder  enough  simply  to  be  walking  thus,  see 
ing  and  feeling  all  things  in  unison  — 

The  whirring  of  a  night-jar  broke  the  stillness.  They  stopped 
involuntarily  and  listened  —  as  if  to  a  miracle. 

"'Enter  these  enchanted  woods,  You  who  dare!'"  Gabrielle 
quoted  under  her  breath.  "  Derek  —  how  dared  we?  " 

"I  suppose  because  —  we  are  lovers,"  he  answered  simply. 
"That's  my  excuse  for  daring  so  greatly  this  evening,  that  no 
other  achievement  in  that  line  will  surprise  me  again!" 

Her  smile  was  a  caress. 

"Personally,  I  think  it  was  far  more  daring  —  in  the  circum 
stances,  to  come  out  and  assail  me  about  your  —  Van!" 

At  that  word  the  actual  thrust  a  rude  hand  into  their  Eden. 
Derek  looked  whimsically  distressed. 

"I'm  afraid  —  I'd  forgotten  Van.  If  we  tell  them  all,  now 
—  the  very  same  day  —  it  would  be  too  cruel  — 

"Perhaps  if  he  heard,  simultaneously,  about  my  money  —  ?  " 
she  ventured,  with  a  wicked  twitch  of  her  brows. 


HANDMAID  OF  THE  GODS  431 

"  Gabrielle !  Haven't  you  been  sufficiently  unkind  to  him  — 
poor  old  chap!  Of  course  we  can  tell  Mark  and  Sheila.  But 
for  the  others  —  will  you  wait  a  week  —  to  please  me?  " 

Her  eyes  dwelt  on  him  with  inexpressible  tenderness  —  and 
suddenly  they  were  filled  with  tears. 

"Mais — -je  t'adore!"  she  whispered,  feeling  less  shy  of  the 
confession  in  French  than  in  English.  And  without  a  word, 
he  took  her  in  his  arms. 

The  shyness,  the  sacredness  of  his  first  kiss  had  not  prepared 
her  for  the  passionate  fervour  of  his  second,  that  fused  them  in 
a  common  fire  and  lifted  her  to  the  heights  — 

This  new  Derek  was  something  bigger,  more  forcible,  than 
even  she  had  dreamed. 

Then  they  took  hands  again  and  walked  on  home,  radiantly 
companioned  by  their  guardian  spirit  —  the  moon. 


END    OF    BOOK    V 


BOOK  VI 

THE  PROUD   FUTURE 


BOOK  VI 
THE  PROUD   FUTURE 

CHAPTER  I 

We  stand  opposed  by  such  means 

As  you  yourself  have  forged  against  yourself 

By  violation  of  all  faith  and  troth. 

Henry  IV,  Part  I 

THE  opening  glory  of  June,  that  year,  was  darkened  by  the 
sudden  and  tragic  passing  of  Lord  Kitchener.  England,  bereft 
of  that  master-spirit,  seemed  to  lose  a  cubit  of  her  stature. 
A  world  of  warring  nations  turned  their  thoughts  from  strife 
a  moment,  to  mourn  him.  The  very  heavens  wept.  June, 
for  all  her  roses,  was  a  month  of  leaden  skies  and  drench 
ing  storms.  But  the  fruits  of  his  superhuman  labours  were 
ripening;  and  the  face  of  July  was  irradiated  by  the  triumph  of 
the  Somme. 

Tragedy  or  triumph,  the  strain  of  War  was  telling  heavily  on 
one  devoted  Englishman,  who  still  chafed  at  his  enforced  sepa 
ration  from  England  in  her  greatest  hour.  Happily,  even  in 
Bombay,  there  were  battles  to  be  fought  for  her,  victories  — • 
bloodless  and  inglorious  — -  to  be  won.  For  here,  in  the  guise 
of  sedition  and  the  factitious  cry  —  'India,  a  Nation,'  the 
enemy  was  entrenched  in  his  most  insidious  form.  The  intricate 
task  of  sifting  legitimate  aspiration  from  sedition  in  sheep's 
clothing  taxed  Lord  Avonleigh's  keen  brain  to  the  utmost  and 
made  heavy  inroads  on  his  reserves  of  strength.  Between 
work  and  worry  and  an  enervating  climate,  he  was  in  no  fit 
state  to  sustain  the  shock  of  Van's  defection  and  the  present 
ment  of  Schonberg's  'little  account,'  accompanied  by  a  letter 
that  was  a  masterpiece  of  insinuation  cunningly  overlaid. 


436  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Suavely  and  skilfully,  the  German  struck  back  at  both  father 
and  son,  wounding  each  through  the  other.  He  took  credit  to 
himself,  with  due  modesty,  for  having  discerned  and  checked 
a  good  deal  of  undesirable  activity  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Avonleigh,  even  to  ferreting  out  a  secret  wireless  installation  on 
Burnt  Hill.  Proof  conclusive  of  his  zeal  in  the  interests  of  his 
young  friend,  whose  aristocratic  mind  was  too  innately  noble 
to  harbour  distrust,  or  to  risk  striking  unfairly.  Mere  men  of 
business  had  need  to  be  of  another  make.  A  brief  allusion  to 
the  Hospital  staff  was  in  the  same  vein.  Lord  Avonleigh  would 
find  it  free  of  undesirable  elements.  Let  a  man  be  judged  by 
his  actions.  If  editors  of  no  repute  maligned  him,  if  his  motives 
were  called  in  question,  there  still  remained  the  satisfaction  of 
having  served  his  friend.  Since  Lord  Avonleigh  had  seen  fit 
to  come  betwreen  them,  he  was  constrained  —  in  the  way  of 
business  —  to  demand  payment  of  certain  loans  which  Mr. 
Blount,  it  seemed,  could  not  conveniently  meet  .  .  . 

And  so  on  and  so  forth,  in  polished  periods  as  venomous  in 
essence  as  they  were  plausible  in  fact. 

The  more  ostentatiously  he  spread  the  cloak  of  his  mag 
nanimity  over  Van's  slackness,  the  harder  it  became  for  Van's 
father  to  still  the  insistent  doubt.  Had  his  son,  in  bald  terms, 
been  politely  bribed  to  keep  his  aristocratic  eyes  closed,  while 
Schonberg  advertised  his  loyalty  by  ferreting  out  designs  of 
his  own  contriving,  whenever  suspicion  reared  its  head?  In 
that  case  —  how  far  did  Van  realize  — ? 

A  question  so  grave,  so  far-reaching,  he  could  not  bring  him 
self  to  broach  on  paper.  Even  in  anger,  a  certain  tenderness 
for  the  son  he  had  trusted,  in  the  teeth  of  obvious  failings, 
impelled  him  rather  to  suffer  the  pangs  of  doubt  than  risk 
hurting  Van  by  the  hint  of  a  suspicion  that  might  be  unjust. 
Face  to  face,  he  could  probe  him  unsuspected;  and  trust 
his  own  eyes  to  see  true.  Schonberg's  account,  which  he  paid 
without  comment,  drew  from  him  one  more  stern  rebuke; 
and  thereafter  the  subject  was  ignored.  But  his  letters  be 
came  infrequent;  and  his  rare  expressions  of  affection  ceased 
altogether. 


THE  PROUD  FUTURE  437 

By  these  negative  tokens,  alone,  was  the  truth  brought  home 
to  Van  that  his  father's  anger  was  no  mere  volcanic  overflow, 
guaranteed  to  cool  down  in  time,  but  an  inexorable  change  of 
heart;  and  the  aching  sense  of  loss,  following  upon  Gabrielle's 
defection,  brought  him  within  measurable  distance  of  humility. 
It  even  induced  a  fit  of  moral  indigestion,  which  just  stopped 
short  of  propelling  him  into  the  Army.  Gabrielle  being  out  of 
court,  that  brave  impulse  had  died  a  natural  death.  So  en 
tirely  was  it  linked  with  his  desire  for  her,  that  he  failed  to  see 
in  it  the  sole  act  whereby  he  might  have  acquired  merit  in  his 
father's  eyes.  Instead,  he  merely  dismissed  Francis;  cursed 
Schonberg  and  the  War  and  his  luck;  everything,  in  fact,  ex 
cept  the  root  of  all  his  troubles  —  himself. 

Even  his  mother's  unbounded  faith  and  affection  failed  to 
redress  the  balance  of  things.  To  her  he  breathed  no  word  of 
the  change  in  his  father's  letters  or  of  his  own  unsuccess  with 
Miss  de  Vigne.  He  thanked  his  stars  he  had  all  along  been 
reticent  on  that  score.  The  shock  and  surprise  of  her  engage 
ment  left  him  utterly  confounded.  Derek  —  first-rate  fellow 
though  he  was  —  struck  him  as  the  last  sort  of  man  to  capture 
a  woman's  heart.  The  loss  of  her  fortune  —  no  denying  it 
—  helped  to  ease  his  pain ;  and  his  magnanimous  letter  of  con 
gratulation  was  vitiated  only  by  a  faint  glow  of  self-satisfaction 
and  a  cherished  hope  that  Derek  would  share  it  with  Gay  —  as 
indeed  he  did. 

"Here's  luck  to  you  both,"  it  concluded  after  a  page  of  mild 
self-depreciation.  "You  deserve  it.  All  I  ask  is  —  don't  in 
vite  me  to  play  best  man  or  to  dance  at  the  wedding.  And  tell 
Gay  (I  may  call  her  that  now)  I  can't  forgive  her  yet  awhile 
for  stealing  a  poor  devil's  heart  when  she  pretty  obviously  had 
no  sort  of  use  for  it." 

They  were  constrained,  nevertheless,  to  request  his  presence 
at  Wynchmere  Church  on  the  gih  of  August  and  afterwards  at 
Wynchcombe  Friars.  His  polite  excuses  were  accompanied  by 
a  cheque  for  Derek  and  a  pearl  pendant  for  the  bride.  Lady 
Avonleigh  also  excused  herself  on  the  score  of  health;  and  also 
gilded  her  refusal  with  gifts.  In  her  heart  of  hearts  she  was 


438  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

jealous  for  Van;  and,  with  more  than  feminine  unreason,  chose 
to  regard  it  almost  as  an  act  of  disloyalty  on  Derek's  part  that 
he  had  dared  to  be  first  at  the  altar.  Her  refusal  hurt  him 
more  than  he  allowed  any  one  to  suspect;  and  confirmed  his 
secret  sense  of  a  breach  between  them  for  some  cause  or  causes 
unknown. 

In  September  he  was  passed  for  light  duty:  and  the  com 
mission  he  had  more  than  once  refused,  was  accepted  at  last. 
But  before  his  course  of  training  was  completed,  fresh  signs  of 
lung  trouble  shelved  him  again :  whereupon  Gabrielle  prescribed 
the  South  coast  and  shepherded  him  into  a  charming  house 
at  Parkstone-on-Sea. 

Van,  meanwhile,  saw  little  or  nothing  of  them  —  not  by 
chance,  but  by  design.  His  genuine  passion,  slowly  roused, 
was  slow  to  subside.  Worse  still,  it  threatened  to  frustrate  his 
'business  proposition,'  now  more  than  ever  due  to  Avonleigh 
as  a  set-off  against  the  formidable  cost  of  his  philanthropic 
enterprise.  Increasingly  his  heart  leaned  toward  singleness  and 
freedom,  and  Leonie.  The  deuce  of  it  was  that  this  particular 
duty  could  not  be  conveniently  shifted  on  to  other  shoulders  .  .  . 

And,  in  December,  all  lesser  matters  were  dwarfed  by  the 
news  that  Lord  Avonleigh's  health  had  given  way  and  he  was 
sailing  almost  at  once  — 

Shortly  after  Christmas  he  arrived  —  a  ghost  of  his  former 
self.  At  Avonleigh  House  his  entire  family  —  anxious  and 
subdued  —  assembled  to  welcome  him;  and  his  reception  of  the 
new  daughter  made  unwitting  amends  for  the  polite  formality 
of  his  wife's  attitude.  Gabrielle  charmed  him  at  sight;  and  he 
won  her  heart  as  much  by  his  likeness  to  Derek  as  by  his  sincere 
pride  and  pleasure  in  having  a  blood-link  with  France. 

Greetings  over,  medical  science  could  no  longer  be  denied; 
and  specialists  came  and  ministered  to  him.  Their  verdicts 
were  as  conflicting  as  their  nostrums  were  unpalatable;  and  he 
was  sufficiently  himself  to  be  obstructive  and  sceptical  as  of  old. 
On  one  point  they  were  unanimous.  If  he  wished  to  give  him 
self  a  sporting  chance,  he  must  consent  to  spend  the  next  three 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  439 

months  on  the  Riviera  or  the  Southwest  coast.     Four  years 
of  Bombay  had  impoverished  his  power  of  resisting  the  chills 
and  damps  of  his  beloved  Island.    Avonleigh  in  the  spring  — 
should  all  go  well. 

Against  that  unwelcome  verdict  he  rebelled  with  an  acute 
irritation  bred  of  sheer  illness  and  craving  for  home.  Cannes 
and  Torquay  were  vetoed  out  of  hand.  Branksome  Park  was 
a  happier  inspiration;  since  it  would  keep  him  near  Derek 
and  his  wife.  But  —  the  choice  of  an  abode!  Between  the 
idiosyncrasies  of  Evan  and  Esther,  Marion  had  need  of  all  her 
diplomacy,  all  her  resource.  To  Evan,  hotels  and  furnished 
houses  were  anathema.  Living  with  other  people's  belongings 
—  he  whimsically  complained  —  made  him  feel  like  a  ship 
wrecked  mariner  rigged  out  in  some  one  else's  clothes.  But  in 
the  end  he  accepted  the  lesser  evil  —  a  '  desirable  residence ' 
within  easy  reach  of  the  sea;  and  directly  after  Christmas,  he 
left  London  —  scarcely  yet  recovered  from  its  epidemic  of 
resignations  and  counter-resignations,  that  were  rumoured  to 
have  saved  the  country  from  drifting  into  an  untimely  peace. 

Van  —  shocked  and  upset  at  the  change  in  him  —  was  yet 
secretly  relieved  at  his  departure.  Their  meeting  had  been 
friendly,  but  formal;  marked  by  a  studious  avoidance  of  awk 
ward  topics  that  did  not  tend  to  put  an  erring  son  —  used 
to  very  different  treatment  —  at  his  ease.  He  felt  curiously 
nonplussed,  as  never  before,  by  the  ironic  spirit  that  looked 
out  of  Lord  Avonleigh's  handsome,  hawk-like  eyes. 

Alone  again,  he  breathed  more  freely;  though  the  ache  of 
anxiety  worried  him,  and  a  more  acute  ache  of  repentance  than 
he  had  suffered  yet.  If  his  father  would  only  give  him  a  chance, 
the  thing  might  get  itself  said  — 

Very  soon  the  chance  arrived  in  the  form  of  a  note  inviting 
him  down  for  the  week-end. 

"I  feel  stronger  now,"  his  father  wrote,  "and  there  are  mat 
ters  to  talk  of  which  I  prefer  not  to  discuss  by  letter.  Diffi 
cult  subjects  are  best  tackled  face  to  face." 

Needless  to  say,  Van  disagreed  vehemently  with  that  last. 
But  refusal  was  out  of  the  question;  and  he  went  down  on  the 


440  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Saturday  —  shirking  it  badly;  thankful,  at  least,  that  his  mother 
was  on  the  spot. 

He  found  Lord  Avonleigh  looking  many  degrees  more  like 
himself;  full  of  keen  speculation  as  to  the  hopes,  the  risks,  and 
complications  of  the  New  Order  —  Unionist  in  essence,  but  not 
in  leadership.  "The  man  has  driving  power"  he  conceded  to 
his  old  arch-enemy.  "Like  Jehu,  he  driveth  furiously.  The 
critical  question  is  —  in  what  direction?  At  least  we  shall  get 
a  move  on  all  round.  But  I  am  not  sanguine  enough  to  hope 
that  we  may  see  your  friend  Schonberg  relieved  of  his  naturaliza 
tion  mask  and  treated,  firmly  but  politely,  as  an  enemy  subject." 

They  were  sitting  together  over  their  wine;  and,  in  speaking, 
he  transfixed  Van  with  a  look  that  set  the  blood  tingling  under 
his  skin.  If  only  that  precious  interview  were  over  and  done 
with! 

But  business  in  the  evening  was  taboo:  and  next  morning  he 
followed  his  father  into  the  study,  feeling  unpleasantly  like  a 
schoolboy  with  a  possible  caning  in  prospect. 

Lord  Avonleigh  took  the  swivel  seat  before  his  desk  and  con 
signed  Van  to  an  armchair  facing  him.  After  a  few  brief 
questions  about  the  Hospital  —  now  reduced  to  a  score  of  con 
valescents  in  one  wing  —  he  went  straight  to  the  point  that  for 
months  had  pricked  him  like  a  thorn  under  the  flesh. 

"I  suppose  you  are  aware,  Van,"  he  said  in  a  level  tone, 
"that  Schonberg  wrote  me  a  very  exhaustive  letter,  when  he 
sent  in  his  modest  account  of  expenditure  and  —  accom 
modations?  " 

Van  drew  in  his  lips  and  stared  hard  at  the  residential  pattern 
of  the  hearthrug. 

"I've  —  wondered  about  it.     He  threatened  as  much." 

"Threatened?" 

"It  almost  amounted  to  that."  Van  hesitated.  Speech  was 
difficult.  But  a  keen  desire  to  reveal  the  connection  between 
that  letter  and  his  own  decision  unloosed  his  tongue. 

Lord  Avonleigh's  approval  was  evident,  though  restrained. 
He  seemed  to  be  keeping  a  tight  hold  on  himself  this  morning. 

"I'm  glad  you  held  your  own  with  the  fellow.     He  took  full 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  441 

advantage  of  his  opportunity  to  strike  back,  in  true  German 
fashion.  I  never  mentioned  the  letter.  It  was  a  difficult 
matter  to  write  about,  since  you  saw  fit  to  leave  me  completely 
in  the  dark.  I  preferred  to  wait  —  to  reserve  my  judgment. 
Now  —  if  you  will  read  it,  you  can,  perhaps,  enlighten  me  — " 

Van  was  twisting  the  cord  of  his  eyeglass. 

"Is  it  really  necessary?  Why  rake  up  the  beastly  thing  — 
after  all  this  time?" 

Lord  Avonleigh  sighed.  "Unhappily  time  does  not  affect  the 
fundamentals  of  this  affair.  I  am  sorry  to  trouble  you ;  but  you 
may  be  able  to  relieve  my  mind." 

"Has  he  blackened  my  face  —  regardless?" 

"He  is  a  past-master  at  insinuation." 

No  evading  it.  Without  a  word,  Van  took  the  hateful 
sheet,  leaned  an  elbow  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  and  shaded  his 
eyes  \vhile  he  read. 

Had  his  father  designed  to  punish  him  unmercifully,  he  could 
scarce  have  imposed  on  him  a  harsher  ordeal.  Even  through 
the  sheltering  hand,  Van  could  feel  the  intentness  of  his  keen 
glance,  the  suspended  attitude  of  his  just,  austere  mind.  All 
the  old  indulgence  seemed  to  have  been  burnt  away.  .  .  . 

He  looked  up  at  last;  tried  to  meet  the  silent  question  in  his 
father's  eyes  —  and  incontinently  failed. 

"How  much  of  this  —  masterpiece,"  he  asKed,  "do  you 
believe?" 

"How  much  of  it,"  countered  Lord  Avonleigh,  "is  approxi 
mately  true?" 

"Isn't  it  sheer  waste  of  breath  trying  to  defend  myself?" 
Van  flung  out,  with  unaccustomed  bitterness.  "Haven't  you 
.  .  .  months  ago  weighed  me  in  the  balance  .  .  .  and  all  the  rest 
of  it?  If  I  assert  that  he  has  skilfully  maligned  me,  would  you 
—  accept  my  bare  word?" 

Lord  Avonleigh's  thin  hand  grasped  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"I  believe  that,  in  these  unhappy  circumstances,  you  would 
not  wilfully  —  distort  facts." 

"Good  God!" 

Van  changed  colour  as  if  he  had  been  struck.     His  own  pain 


442  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

blinded  him  to  the  pain  he  had  inflicted;  and  a  shadow  flitted 
across  Lord  Avonleigh's  face. 

"We  seem  constrained  to  hurt  one  another,"  he  said  in  a 
gentler  tone.  "But  whose  fault  is  it  if  my  faith  in  you  is 
shaken? " 

It  was  a  question  Van  could  not  trust  himself  to  answer; 
and,  after  a  brief  silence,  Lord  Avonleigh  went  on:  "I  have 
had  time,  since  May,  to  take  a  long  look  backward;  and  —  it 
has  shown  me  too  clearly  how  consistently  you  have  played  for 
mere  popularity  at  home  and  abroad.  You  have  been  willing 
to  deceive  your  mother  —  and  me,  within  gentlemanly  limits, 
sooner  than  let  us  see  you  in  an  unflattering  light.  Was  it 
worth  while,  Van,  even  on  the  lowest  computation?" 

Van's  answer  was  barely  audible.  The  pattern  of  the  hearth 
rug  was  weaving  itself  automatically  into  his  brain. 

And  again  Lord  Avonleigh's  measured  voice  went  on:  "I  have 
wondered,  in  view  of  your  remarkable  capacity  for  spending 
money,  how  you  managed  to  come  through  Oxford  with  a 
pretty  clear  balance  sheet." 

"Karl,"  Van  answered,  without  looking  up;  and  Lord  Avon 
leigh's  lips  twitched  under  his  moustache. 

"The  Schonberg  family  has  done  you  yeoman  service.  And 
now  —  what  have  you  to  say  —  about  that  letter?  " 

This  time  Van  looked  up,  a  faint  suggestion  of  challenge  in 
his  glance.  "I  hope  you  will  at  least  do  me  the  honour  to 
believe  that  these  abominable  implications  are  untrue." 

"Altogether—?" 

Van  flinched:  but  the  pitiless  scrutiny  of  his  father's  eyes 
wrung  the  truth  from  him. 

"In  point  of  fact  —  not  altogether.  I  had  no  intention  — 
He  seemed  so  thoroughly  my  friend.  But  —  looking  back 

—  I'm  afraid  in  some  ways  I  was  .  .  .  confoundedly  careless  .  .  . 
if  thafs  a  cardinal  sin." 

"In  certain  circumstances,  it  amounts  to  one.     And  naturally 

—  being  a  good  deal  indebted  — ?  " 

"Oh,  of  course  one  preferred  to  avoid  needless  friction. 
And  —  I  couldn't  see  that  he  was  up  to  any  harm." 


THE  PROUD  FUTURE  443 

"But  now  tnat  you  are  less  indebted,  perhaps  your  eyesight 
has  improved?  If  so,  you  might  dispense  with  that  superfluous 
monocle." 

Van,  who  was  fingering  it  absently,  could  not  repress  a  start. 
With  an  impatient  movement  he  jerked  the  glass  sharply 
against  a  corner  of  the  desk  and  cracked  it  right  across. 

"Excellent!  Don't  waste  good  money  on  another,"  said  his 
father  drily  —  and  reverted  to  his  theme.  "Perhaps  you  see 

—  now  —  that  I  was  right  in  distrusting  the  man  —  and  his 
nation?    He  is  as  clever  as  Germans  are  made;  and  there  are 
too  many  others  a  good  deal  indebted!    But  you  knew  my 
opinions  —  my  prejudice,  ft  you  will.    And  probably  others 
warned  you.     George  — ?" 

"Yes.  And  —  well  —  Derek  and  I  had  a  bit  of  a  jar  about 
it." 

Lord  Avonleigh  drew  an  audible  breath.  "I  wondered  — 
when  that  was  coming." 

"You  mean  —  if—  ?" 

"Yes  —  if-  "  His  father  spared  him  nothing.  "But  I  am 
glad  you  have  admitted  it.  I  told  Derek  a  good  deal  that  you 
might  have  found  worth  considering  —  had  you  cared  to  hear." 

"It's  nothing  but  Dirks  with  you  now."  Van's  look  and 
tone  were  distinctly  aggrieved.  "I  expect  you've  been  wishing 

—  since  this  cursed  affair  —  that  he  was  —  in  my  shoes." 
Lord  Avonleigh  was  silent  a  moment;  then  he  looked  straight 

at  his  first-born.  "I  can't  deny  that  the  thought  —  has 
occurred  to  me." 

At  that,  Van  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Damn  it  all !  I've  not  committed  forgery.  And  —  I  am  — 
your  son !  But  if  you  think  I'm  unfit  —  if  you  want  to  break 
the  entail  —  /  won't  raise  any  objections." 

Again  Lord  Avonleigh's  hand  closed  on  his  chair.  Sensations 
within  warned  him  that  he  was  overtaxing  his  strength. 

"My  dear  boy,  you  are  talking  at  random,"  he  said,  not 
unkindly.  "I  would  not  dream  of  dishonouring  you  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world." 

"But  if  I'm  dishonoured  —  in  your  eyes  —  what  matter  — ?" 


444  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

His  father's  look  reminded  him  of  Derek. 

"Keep  on  the  rails,  Van.  You  may  feel  like  that  —  now. 
In  a  cooler  moment  you  would  realize  that  the  world  counts  — • 
for  both  of  us;  your  own  world  —  the  tenants  —  the  family  — 
Mother—" 

At  that  word,  Van's  very  mixed  impulse  of  renunciation 
shrivelled  like  a  leaf  at  the  first  touch  of  autumn. 

"All  the  same  —  if  you  think  I'm  unfit,"  he  repeated.  For 
the  implication  rankled. 

"We  needn't  go  over  all  that  afresh." 

But  Van  was  growing  desperate.  "  Will  you  never  —  let  by 
gones  be  bygones  —  and  start  fair  again?" 

Lord  Avonleigh  frowned.  "The  matter  is  not  so  simple. 
There  are  wounds  —  a  lifetime  cannot  heal."  Something 
checked  him.  He  seemed  to  breathe  with  difficulty;  and 
physical  weakness  always  made  him  impatient.  "  Sit  down  — 
sit  down.  I'm  not  strong  enough  for  a  scene." 

His  changed  aspect,  and  the  drawn  lines  about  his  mouth, 
caught  at  Van's  heart;  extinguished  for  a  moment  all  thought 
of  self. 

"Father!"  he  exclaimed  —  compressing  into  that  supreme 
word  all  his  carefully  framed  expressions  of  regret. 

Lord  Avonleigh  grasped  his  outflung  hand.  For  a  few 
moments  they  looked  straight  at  one  another;  but  no  word 
was  spoken.  And  Van  knew  that  nothing  more  would  be 
said  from  that  hour. 

When  the  tension  had  subsided,  his  father  again  motioned 
him  to  sit  down. 

"We  still  have  a  trifle  of  business  to  see  about,"  he  explained 
in  his  normal  voice. 

"Are  you  sure  —  you're  fit?" 

"Of  course  I  am.  It  needn't  take  long.  And  with  things 
—  so  uncertain,  one  can't  let  chances  slide.  The  fact  is  —  I 
want  Derek  to  have  Trevanyon,  as  a  permanency;  for  himself 
and  his  heirs  after  him.  And  —  your  consent  is  necessary  to 
the  transaction." 

Van's  passing  pang  had  no  connection   with  Trevanyon. 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  445 

"It's  a  capital  notion,"  he  agreed  warmly.  "It  would  give  the 
place  a  better  chance.  I  should  say  Dirks  is  cut  out  for  land 
owning." 

"I  am  glad  we  agree  on  that  point,"  said  Lord  Avonleigh, 
surprised  at  the  generous  tribute.  He  did  not  know  that,  in 
his  own  fashion,  Van  was  salving  his  conscience  for  those  unfair 
reservations  made  to  his  mother. 

"Has  Dirks  any  idea?" 

"He  knows  I  wish  it." 

"Queer  —  he's  never  said  a  word." 

Lord  Avonleigh 's  smile  inflicted  a  fresh  pin-prick  of  jealousy. 
"He  probably  thought  I  should  prefer  to  tell  you  myself.  Are 
you  going  over  to  see  him?" 

"I  thought  of  it.  And  now  —  I'd  like  to  offer  congrats  — 
to  assure  him  personally  that  Barkis  is  willing." 

He  left  the  study  ten  minutes  later,  in  a  very  mixed  frame 
of  mind;  avoided  the  drawing-room,  where  his  mother  would 
certainly  be  awaiting  him,  and  hurried  out  of  the  house. 

But  though  he  walked  at  a  swinging  pace  through  the  pine- 
wroods  to  the  green  open  sweep  of  the  golf  links,  he  did  not  cross 
over  to  the  black  and  white  house  on  the  hill  where  Derek  and 
Gabrielle  had  made  their  first  real  home.  For,  down  near  the 
marshes,  he  spied  two  figures  walking  very  close  together.  No 
mistaking  them.  Gabrielle  carried  a  basket  and  stooped  at 
intervals;  evidently  collecting  something.  Once  they  paused 
and  had  a  lively  altercation.  Gabrielle  seemed  to  be  asserting 
her  dignity  writh  a  lift  of  her  head  that  Van's  heart  knew  too 
well.  But  Derek  had  the  best  of  it:  and  they  went  on  again 
as  before. 

For  about  three  minutes  Van  looked  after  them,  feeling 
rebellious  and  miserable.  Then  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  went 
back  the  way  he  had  come.  He  considered  he  had  endured 
enough  that  morning.  Not  that  he  actively  grudged  Derek 
his  good  fortune;  but  more  than  once  he  had  caught  a  look  in 
Gabrielle's  eyes  when  they  rested  on  her  husband  —  not  merely 
loving,  but  glorying  in  him  —  that  made  Van  feel  'bad  all  over.' 
And  the  ache  about  his  father  went  deeper  still  .  .  . 


446  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

He  prolonged  his  walk  till  near  lunch  time;  and  on  his 
return  ran  into  his  mother,  restlessly  pacing  the  lawn  in  her  long 
squirrel  coat  with  a  lacelike  wrap  over  her  head. 

"Oh,  my  dear"  —  her  fingers  closed  on  his  forearm.  "Why 
did  you  stay  so  long?  We've  had  a  wretched  morning. 
Father  has  been  quite  upset.  He  had  to  lie  down.  And  then 
—  Aunt  Marion  makes  unkind  insinuations  about  you." 

Van  frowned.  "I'm  afraid  I  was  —  more  or  less  —  respon 
sible.  But  Aunt  Marion's  got  a  tongue  like  a  razor  —  not 
patent  safety!  Is  she  a  fixture?  I  wonder  you  can  put  up 
with  her." 

"I  wouldn't  —  if  I  was  stronger,"  sighed  Lady  Avonleigh. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  she  found  Marion  Blount  invaluable  when 
there  were  difficult,  or  unpleasant  things  to  be  done.  But  the 
poisoned  arrow  of  jealousy  had  pricked  her  placid  heart.  "  Be 
cause  I  had  to  let  her  take  my  place  in  India,  she  seems  to 
imagine  she  can  stay  here  always  and  come  between  us  at  every 
turn.  Of  course  Father  —  is  difficult.  And  things  are  —  a 
strain — "  She  pressed  a  morsel  of  lace  and  lawn  against  her 
shaking  lips,  and  went  on  in  a  lower  tone:  "Oh,  Van,  I'm 
miserable  here.  Father  doesn't  really  seem  to  get  better  and  I 
hate  this  place.  I  shall  break  down  if  it  goes  on  much  longer. 
I  miss  London.  And  most  of  all  —  I  miss  you.  Do  come  again 
soon,  dear." 

Van  shook  his  head.  "I'm  afraid  you  wron't  see  me  here 
very  often." 

"Then  I  shall  go  back  to  London,"  she  announced  with 
desperate  courage.  "I  must  see  you  sometimes.  I  was 
counting  on  this  morning;  and  you've  wasted  it  all  with 
Derek." 

Annoyance  lurked  in  the  mere  stress  on  his  name;  and  it 
impelled  Van  to  say:  "You're  really  not  fair  on  Dirks,  Mother. 
And  I  haven't  been  near  him." 

"Then  —  why—  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing.     I  just  felt  I  must  have  a  walk." 

But  love  quickened  her  senses  where  he  was  concerned,  and 
she  had  seen  the  shadow  in  his  eyes.  "Dear,"  she  ventured 


THE  PROUD  FUTURE  447 

pressing  his  arm,  "did  you  have  a  difficult  time  with  Father? 
Was  he  —  down  on  you?  " 

"Fair  to  mod.,"  Van  answered  lightly.  "After  all  —  I  let 
him  in  for  the  deuce  of  a  bother  over  Avonleigh." 

"That's  your  generous  way  of  putting  it.  You  did  an  ex 
cellent  bit  of  war  work,  when  your  hands  were  quite  full  enough. 
If  you  did  think  better  of  Mr.  Schonberg  than  he  deserved,  it's 
all  to  your  credit  —  in  my  eyes.  And  if  only  Derek  had  not 
interfered  — " 

Van  frowned  and  looked  uncomfortable. 

"He  didn't  interfere.  You  seem  to  have  got  a  maggot  in 
your  head  about  Dirks." 

But  his  belated  championship  was  unavailing. 

"Just  like  you,  dear,  to  stand  up  for  him.  But  he's  a  great 
deal  too  opinionated  —  Blount  all  through.  As  for  Father  — 
I  can't  make  him  out.  You  were  always  his  favourite.  And 
now  he  worries  you  about  this  wretched  business,  when  it's  all 
over.  So  unkind  —  so  unjust  — !" 

"That's  enough,  Mother."  Van's  tone  was  almost  peremp 
tory.  "Kindness  has  never  been  one  of  Father's  strong 
points;  but  I  don't  think  he  knows  how  to  be  —  unjust." 

In  the  circumstances  it  was  magnanimous;  the  sincerest 
tribute  he  had  paid  in  all  the  days  of  his  life. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  mother  and  a  mistress  and  a  dear, 
A  guide,  a  goddess  and  a  sovereign. 

SHAKESPEARE 

ON  a  mild  afternoon  of  January,  cloudless  and  very  still, 
Derek  sat  alone  on  the  confines  of  a  pine  patch  overlooked  by 
the  all-devouring  axe.  The  height  and  majesty  of  its  individual 
trees  dowered  the  little  wood  with  a  dignity,  out  of  all  propor 
tion  to  its  size.  From  the  wide  main  road  they  trooped  in 
close  formation,  to  the  rim  of  the  orange-tawny  cliff,  straggling 
as  they  neared  it;  the  less  stalwart  bowed  eastward  by  the 
buffetings  of  autumnal  gales.  One  of  them  lay  prone  near  the 
crumbling  edge;  and  against  its  upturned  roots  Derek  rested 
his  head  and  shoulders. 

His  half -recumbent  figure  was  still  as  the  trees  around,  as  the 
opalescent  sea  that  lisped  'hush-hush'  on  the  sand  two  hun 
dred  feet  below.  Only  ascending  whiffs  of  smoke  revealed  that 
he  was  not  asleep.  A  rusty-haired  Aberdeen  lay  curled  up 
close  against  him,  nose  to  tail.  His  name  was  Socrates.  He  was 
a  wedding  present  from  Mark;  and,  awake  or  asleep,  Derek 
found  him  excellent  company.  At  the  moment,  like  his  master, 
he  was  hovering  between  the  two,  in  a  blissful  borderland 
peopled  with  bones  and  cats. 

Derek's  borderland  was  filled  enchantingly  with  the  looks  and 
tendernesses  and  humours  of  the  wife,  who  became  more  deeply 
and  sacredly  dear  to  him  with  every  month  of  possession.  He 
was  just  pleasantly  aware  of  the  outer  world  as  a  fitting  back 
ground  for  her  gracious  figure.  Heart,  mind,  and  body  were 
steeped  in  content.  .  .  . 

Truly  a  wonderful  state  of  life  —  marriage;  the  real  thing 
with  the  real  woman!  He  who  had  been  so  sceptical,  so  reluq- 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  449 

tant  to  open  the  inner  doors  of  his  being,  now  felt  himself  blest 
beyond  his  deserts.  His  slow,  tenacious  nature  absorbed  hap 
piness  slowly;  and  it  went  the  deeper  with  him  in  consequence. 
Even  after  five  months  of  marriage  he  still,  at  times,  had  the 
lover's  need  to  get  away  and  be  alone  with  the  wonder  of  it 
all.  .  .  . 

Inevitably,  at  moments,  some  mood  or  phrase  would  recall 
that  earlier  union;  such  a  travesty  of  the  real  thing,  as  he  knew 
it  now,  that  it  seemed  a  prostitution  of  language  to  use  the 
same  wrord  for  both.  In  Lois  —  unloved,  yet  tenderly  cherished 
-he  had  found  mere  woman.  In  Gabrielle,  he  found  true 
woman  —  and  something  more;  something  that  could  live  on 
the  level  of  his  upward-reaching  thoughts;  something  as 
essential  to  him  as  dew  to  grass  and  sunshine  to  opening 
buds.  Every  shy  step  he  took  into  the  recesses  of  her  character 
was  an  adventure  rich  in  discovery  to  a  lover  of  little  knowledge, 
but  no  longer  of  little  faith.  Such  fine  adjustments  of  the 
Latin  and  Saxon  elements  in  her!  So  light,  yet  unerring,  her 
touch  on  the  double  chord  in  a  man's  nature  —  the  eternal 
dissonance  of  flesh  and  spirit  that  is  the  crux  of  marriage. 
Never  had  he  known  any  one  less  restless  and  more  alive.  Her 
very  repose  seemed  quick  with  vitality;  her  reserve  warmed 
with  flashes  of  heavenly  frankness  —  all  the  doors  of  her  being 
flung  wide  for  him  to  enter  in.  A  woman  one  could  love 
with  mind  as  well  as  heart;  and  Derek  had  need  of  the  dual 
allegiance  to  hold  him  fast.  More  than  all  she  held  him  by  the 
mother  element  in  her  love,  that  permeated  and  hallowed  their 
whole  relation.  Starved  of  it  all  his  days  —  he  had  found,  at 
last,  as  by  a  miracle,  mother  and  wife  in  one.  That  Fate,  after 
ceaseless  buffetings,  should  have  made  such  royal  amends — ! 
Stripped  of  superstitious  trappings  he  saw  her,  now  — 
materialist  in  the  grain:  one  that  trafficked  in  externals;  all 
that  was  most  vital  in  man  eternally  eluding  her  grasp.  She 
could  rend,  she  could  batter  the  frail  human  envelope.  Inner 
fatality  there  was  none.  And  that  brave  assurance  was  some 
thing  more  vital  than  the  lover's  innate  sense  of  immunity.  It 
went  deeper.  It  would  endure, 


450  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

The  peace  and  stillness  of  this  midwinter  day,  on  a  landlocked 
coast,  were  mirrored  within  him.  Yet  eternally,  behind  every 
thing,  lurked  the  waiting  shadow  of  the  War:  its  awful  insistent 
magnetism  drawing  him,  drawing  him  away  from  his  new-found 
blessedness,  from  the  alchemic  experience  that  had  indeed 
transmuted  iron  to  gold.  .  .  . 

In  the  midst  of  his  blissful  dreaming  —  thought  melting  into 
sensation,  and  sensation  running  back  into  the  mould  of  thought 

—  he  fell  to  wondering  —      Had  a  man  the  right  to  lose  himself 
in  personal  happiness  while  the  blood  of  his  brothers  was  being 
spilled  like  water  and  the  nations  of  earth  were  locked  in  a 
death-grapple  on  the  far  side  of  that  smiling  sea?     Did  it  un 
string  him  for  battle  or  strengthen  the  sinews  of  his  spirit? 

A  little  of  both,  he  admitted  honestly.  Much  depended  on 
the  mood.  It  could  and  did  make  some  things  harder  to  bear. 
It  could  not  and  did  not  affect  the  irresistible  inner  compulsion 

—  duty,  love  of  country,  name  it  how  you  will ;  all  the  mysteri 
ous  forces  that  lie  behind  the  word  '  must '  —  the  deep  convic 
tion  that  only  on  the  field  of  battle,  doing  his  microscopic  ut 
most,  could  a  man,  in  these  great  days,  be  at  peace  with  his 
soul.     It  could  not  silence  the  call  of  the  dead  —  '  Come  out 
and  fill  the  gaps '  —  or  of  the  Greater  Comradship  that  springs 
from  striving  and  suffering  in  common.     Whenever  he  heard  of 
a  success  or  failure  in  the  region  where  his  regiment  must  be, 
one  thought  eclipsed  all  others  —  "And  7  not  out  there  sharing 
it  all!" 

Yet  —  being  humanly  inconsistent  —  he  was  thankful  enough 
for  the  respite  from  parting,  for  the  blessed  spell  of  love 
and  quiet  life,  in  this  peaceful  oasis  between  the  pines  and 
the  sea;  and  —  not  least  —  for  the  chance  to  see  more  of  his 
father  before  the  Inexorable  claimed  him  again  —  if  it  ever 
did. 

They  had  been  lunching  to-day  at  Barford  Towers;  but  had 
resisted  an  invitation  to  stay  on  for  tea.  Lord  Avonleigh 
seldom  graced  the  tea-tray;  and  their  own  fireside,  these  winter 
evenings,  was  Elysium. 

Derek   and   Socrates  —  briefly  'Socks'  —  were   waiting   for 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  451 

Gabrielle  who  was  returning  some  books  to  a  friend;  a  serious 
reader,  like  herself.  Derek,  having  nothing  to  say  to  the  friend's 
husband,  had  voted  for  Socrates  and  the  pines  and  the  sea.  He 
had  spent  most  of  the  morning  in  his  father's  company — the  best 
he  knew.  They  had  talked  much  of  Trevanyon;  of  hopes  and 
schemes  for  that  Ultima  Thule  — • '  after  the  War.'  The  story  of 
Gabrielle  and  her  marriage  portion  had  moved  Lord  Avonleigh 
to  atone,  in  part,  for  Burlton's  defection  by  settling  a  small 
dowry  on  her  himself;  and  nothing  could  more  firmly  have 
cemented  the  personal  link  between  them  than  this  gracious 
and  generous  act. 

Of  the  painful  scene  with  Van,  a  wreek  ago,  Lord  Avonleigh 
had  told  Derek  nothing  beyond  the  fact  of  his  brother's  willing 
ness  and  the  generous  compliment  with  which  it  had  been 
confirmed.  Derek,  genuinely  moved,  wondered  why  Van  had 
not  come  over  to  see  them;  and  Lord  Avonleigh  wondered  also, 
without  giving  him  away.  It  simply  looked  like  incapacity  to 
run  straight,  even  in  the  smallest  matters  —  which  was  hard 
on  Van. 

Since  that  Sunday,  Lord  Avonleigh  had  been  distinctly  less 
well:  and  Derek,  the  married  man,  could  no  longer  blind  him 
self  to  the  truth  that  his  mother  was  failing  her  husband  lamen 
tably  in  these  difficult  days;  had  done  so  —  he  shrewdly  sus 
pected  —  at  every  turn.  For  him,  that  tragic  fact  over 
shadowed  the  pain  and  bewilderment  of  her  changed  attitude 
to  himself.  He  was  becoming  blunted  to  it  now.  Ignorant  of 
the  true  cause,  he  could  only  suppose  she  was  jealous  for  Van 
because  he  and  his  father  had  become  close  friends.  The 
pettiness,  the  injustice  of  it  galled  him  and  held  him  proudly 
aloof.  He,  who  had  enthroned  her  in  his  boy's  heart  as  more 
than  woman,  saw  her  now,  with  his  man's  eyes,  as  less  than 
woman ;  since  she  lacked  the  supreme  attribute  —  power  to 
hold  the  hearts  of  her  men.  She  simply  let  them  slip  out  of  her 
idle  graceful  fingers.  Strange  and  sad  to  realize  how  completely 
his  old  feeling  for  her  had  shrivelled  and  died  from  sheer  lack 
of  nourishment.  No  link  left  betwreen  them  but  the  physical 
accident  of  birth;  and  Derek  had  discovered  —  with  something 


452  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

of  a  shock  —  how  slight  a  thing  it  is  without  the  more  vital 
links  of  heart  and  brain,  of  understanding  and  trust.  They 
had  simply  lost  each  other:  and  the  pity  of  it  was  that  the  fact 
seemed  to  have  so  little  significance  for  either  of  them  — 

His  father,  thank  Heaven,  had  Aunt  Marion,  or  his  plight 
would  be  tragic  indeed.  And  he  himself  —  thrice  blest  —  had 
Gabrielle— ! 

Having  let  his  pipe  go  out,  he  pocketed  it  and  grew  drowsy, 
from  a  blessed  sense  of  well-being.  So  he  failed  to  hear  light 
footsteps  approaching  or  to  notice  that  Socrates  sat  up  and 
cocked  a  wise  head.  His  first  intimation  was  a  pair  of  ungloved 
hands  laid  on  his  shoulders  from  behind.  With  a  start  he  came 
to  himself,  captured  those  soft  cool  hands  and  pressed  them  to 
his  lips. 

Gabrielle,  leaning  over  the  upturned  roots,  laid  her  head 
against  his. 

"Lazy  villain!  Have  you  been  fast  asleep  catching  your 
death?" 

"Not  quite.  I've  been  absorbing  the  sun  and  the  sea  and  a 
few  other  things  —  very  good  for  my  digestion!" 

"But  it's  getting  late.  You  ought  to  have  been  moving 
about.  Come  along  home,  darling.  And  we'll  march  double 
quick  to  work  up  a  glow!" 

Obedient  in  trifles,  he  rose  reluctantly  and  squared  his 
shoulders.  The  change  in  his  \vhole  aspect  was  as  notable  as 
the  change  from  hospital  blue  to  the  heather-brown  Norfolk 
coat  of  freedom.  Gabrielle  had  also  been  translated  from  blue 
to  brown.  Her  sables  were  a  gift  from  Lord  Avonleigh;  and 
her  charming  face,  framed  in  fur  and  the  soft  cloud  of  her 
hair,  looked  years  younger  than  on  that  June  day  of  blessed 
memory. 

Side  by  side  they  stood  awhile,  watching  the  path  of  the  sun 
upon  the  sea  —  a  milky  way  of  radiance,  changing,  widening  to 
a  shower  of  golden  leaves.  Here  a  handful,  there  a  handful, 
flickered  and  danced;  till  a  last  least  sparkle  gleamed  where  a 
wavelet  curled  and  perished  in  foam. 

Gabrielle  slipped  a  hand  into  his  and  he  pressed  it  hard.    In 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  453 

few  respects  were  they  more  profoundly  one  than  in  their  deep 
personal  love  of  Nature. 

'"She  being  Spirit  in  her  clods, 
Footway  to  the  God  of  Gods/" 

Gabrielle  quoted  softly  from  the  noble  poem  that  enshrined 
her  creed. 

Derek  nodded  —  and  they  turned  homeward;  the  ungainly 
Socrates  snouting  among  the  pine  needles  for  new  and  alluring 
smells;  Gabrielle  treading  them  with  elastic  step,  health  and 
happiness  in  every  line  and  in  the  lift  of  her  small  head 
crowned  with  a  cunningly  folded  device  of  green  velvet  and 
fur. 

If  they  talked  little,  they  were  not  the  less  content.  Be 
tween  married  lovers  the  body,  grown  eloquent,  has  a  speech 
of  its  own.  It  is  enough  for  one  that  the  other  is  there.  Sim 
ply  by  their  presence  they  converse.  For  the  alchemic  quality 
of  true  union  is  no  mere  romantic  fancy,  but  a  physiological 
fact.  In  the  light  of  this  wonderful  new  knowledge,  Gabrielle 
perceived,  with  dismay,  how  nearly  her  discreet  plans  had  pre 
cipitated  her  into  a  state  of  life  that  would  doubtfully  have 
enriched  Van  and  have  left  her  poor  indeed! 

In  moments  of  fullest  recognition  it  came  over  her  that  the 
debt  she  owed  her  stray  foundling  was  greater  than  mortal 
woman  could  pay. 


CHAPTER  III 

'Our  deeds  are  fetters  that  u<e  forge  ourselves.' 

'Ay,  true,  my  lord.    But  'tis  the  world  that  brings  the  iron.' 

SHAKESPEARE 

HALF  an  hour  later,  Gabrielle  sat  alone  in  her  drawing-room 
beside  a  blazing  log  fire  that  fitfully  illumined  her  golden  brown 
curtains,  the  dull  red  and  blue  of  her  Persian  carpet,  and  her 
rare  collection  of  brasses  and  ivories,  contributed  from  all  parts 
of  the  world.  These,  and  the  inlaid  bookcase  that  enshrined 
her  favourites,  set  the  impress  of  her  personality  on  the  room. 

On  a  low  table,  near  the  fire,  silver  tea-things  gleamed;  but 
Gabrielle  had  deserted  her  seat  for  a  floor-cushion  close  to 
Derek's  chair.  They  had  been  reading  together  a  long,  happy 
letter  from  Sheila,  bidding  two  prospective  godparents  to  the 
christening  of  Mark's  son.  Derek  had  just  gone  out  to  answer 
a  telephone  call;  and  she  had  opened  a  letter  from  Randchester. 
She  was  studying  it  now;  her  brows  contracted,  all  the  radiance 
gone  from  her  face. 

When  the  door  opened,  she  started  and  looked  up. 

"Oh,  Derek!"  With  a  peremptory  gesture  she  motioned 
him  to  his  chair.  "It's  Dad  —  Mr.  Schonberg -  Read  it." 

Resting  an  elbow  on  his  knee,  she  held  the  sheet  towards 
him;  and  together  they  read  the  last  phase  of  that  fatal  con 
junction,  which  a  stranger  Gabrielle  had  hinted  at  to  a  stranger 
Derek  more  than  four  years  ago. 

MY  DARLING  [wrote  Burlt on], — 

I  have  just  returned  from  Schonberg's  and  —  I  have  broken  with 
him  for  good.  I  am  going  to  sell  out;  and  when  that  is  done,  there 
will  be  no  more  Burltons.  The  fellow  had  the  cheek  to  suggest  that 
the  firm  (his  firm,  mind  you)  should  not  be  deprived  of  a  name  so 
respected  throughout  the  Kingdom.  He  thought  I  would  take  the 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  455 

proposal  as  a  mark  of  esteem.  He  found  himself  mistaken  for  once, 
thank  God. 

Are  you  surprised,  Gay,  that  I  am  writing  about  him  like  this? 
They  say  confession  is  good  for  the  soul;  and  to  you  —  who  have 
forgiven  me  so  much  —  I  confess  that  all  these  years  I  have  been 
blind,  and  as  obstinate  as  a  mule.  When  I  wasn't  quite  so  blind,  I 
hugged  my  obstinacy.  Sooner  than  admit  I  was  wrong,  I  quarrelled 
with  poor  Jacko,  and  lost  my  temper  all  round.  The  truth  was  I 
couldn't  —  as  a  firm  —  afford  to  break  with  Schonberg.  He  took 
a  good  holding  when  we  changed  the  partnership  into  a  company 
and  he  made  things  move.  But  all  the  while,  cautiously  and  skil 
fully,  he  was  playing  the  German  game  —  that  nearly  throttled  us 
all  before  the  War.  I  can  see  clearly  enough,  now,  that  five  pounds' 
worth  of  naturalization  is  no  charm  for  making  silk  purses  out  of 
sows'  ears.  It  merely  gave  the  devil  his  opportunity;  and  the  devil 
has  made  the  most  of  it.  But  it's  too  late,  alas,  to  save  the  old  firm. 
Nothing  can  ease  my  heart  or  my  conscience  about  that.  It's  nearly 
a  hundred  years  since  my  grandfather  started  his  little  venture; 
and  to  me  the  firm  has  been  a  kind  of  religion.  I  honestly  thought 
the  Schonberg  alliance  was  as  good  a  day's  work  as  any  Burlton  had 
ever  done ;  and  what  I  have  been  through  this  last  year  —  half  sus 
pecting  things  and  trying  to  think  I  was  mistaken  —  no  one  will 
ever  know.  Some  day,  when  it  is  all  ancient  history,  we  will  talk 
of  it.  To-day  I  can  only  give  you  a  rough  idea  of  the  doings  that 
have  led  me  to  take  the  saddest  step  of  my  life. 

The  fact  is,  as  I  said,  Schonberg  must  have  been  working  for 
years,  to  get  the  lion's  share  of  votes  on  the  Board,  in  other  words, 
command  of  the  Capital.  It  is  not  easy  to  make  things  clear  to  you, 
my  dear;  but  you  have  heard  me  talk  of  shares  being  'bear-ed'  on 
'Change  for  purposes  of  speculation.  Well  —  when  I  found  this 
dirty  business  going  on,  of  course  it  worried  me  badly.  But  I 
could  not  get  at  the  source  of  it.  No  more  could  Schonberg,  which 
might  have  made  me  suspect  he  was  involved.  I'm  pretty  well  sure 
of  it  now.  In  fact  the  truth  has  at  last  been  knocked  into  my  thick 
head  that,  for  all  practical  purposes  —  shareholders,  capital,  and  so 
forth  —  Burltons  is  actually  more  German  than  British,  though 
most  of  the  gentlemen  concerned  are  British  subjects  —  so  called! 
I  confess  that  would  not  have  bothered  me  much  a  few  years  ago. 
But  we  have  stepped  into  another  world  since  then.  And  some 
trouble  here  recently  (which  I  could  not  overlook)  has  brought 
matters  to  a  head.  You  wc'ild  not  understand  the  details.  It  was 


456  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

a  matter  of  export  leakage  —  metal  pipes  and  so  forth.  Neutral 
agents,  of  course;  and  the  whole  thing  has  been  so  cleverly  done  that 
it  is  difficult  to  take  action.  Schonberg  very  zealous  as  usual.  But 
for  once  he  has  not  been  able  to  throw  dust  in  my  eyes.  Some  fishy 
details,  that  came  to  hand  this  morning,  fairly  put  my  blood  up 
and  I  spoke  to  him  as  I  have  never  spoken  in  all  my  days.  Thank 
God,  it's  over  — 

The  next  word  trailed  off  into  a  meaningless  scrawl;  and  a 
few  lines  from  Mrs.  Lester  completed  John  Burlton's  tragic 
story. 

Your  dear  stepfather  [she  wrote]  has  had  an  apoplectic  seizure. 
It  happened  during  an  interview  with  Mr.  Schonberg.  They  had 
quarrelled  yesterday,  as  John's  letter  explains,  and  while  he  was 
writing,  Mr.  Schonberg  was  announced.  Of  course  I  left  the  study. 
And  exactly  what  passed  between  them,  I  fear  none  of  us  will  ever 
know.  We  gathered  from  Mr.  Schonberg  that  it  was  a  stormy  in 
terview;  and  I  don't  doubt  it  was  all  his  doing.  At  first  we  feared 
everything  was  over,  which  would  perhaps  have  been  more  merciful. 
Don't  think  of  coming  up,  dear.  It  is  too  cruelly  sad.  He  would 
not  know  you  and  none  of  us  can  do  anything.  Karl  is  here  — 

There  was  a  little  more;  but  for  Gabrielle  it  had  all  become 
a  tremulous  blur;  and,  with  a  shivering  sob,  she  bid  her  face 
against  Derek's  shoulder. 

Dumb  in  the  presence  of  tragedy,  he  could  only  gather  her 
close  and  press  her  head  against  his  own. 

"Courage,  beloved,"  he  whispered,  at  last;  and  for  answer  he 
had  her  lips  and  shining  eyes. 

Then  she  sat  upright  and  brushed  away  her  tears.  "I'll  be 
brave  now,"  she  said  with  a  pathetic  smile.  "But  oh,  I  wish 
—  he  was  gone.  He'll  wish  it  too  —  when  he  realizes  — 

For  nearly  an  hour  they  sat  there,  in  the  firelight,  talking 
quietly,  fitfully,  of  it  all.  In  some  strange  way  it  eased  Ga- 
brielle's  pain  to  wander  back  into  old  times;  into  the  spacious 
days  of  childhood,  when  the  world  was  made  new  every  morning 
for  Jacko  and  herself;  to  recall  the  generosities  and  loyalties  of 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  457 

the  limited,  lovable  man  whose  limitations  had  cost  him  all  he 
valued  on  earth.  And  Derek  unobtrusively  encouraged  her; 
thankful  she  had  found  a  passing  anodyne;  eager,  on  his  own 
account,  to  follow  her  along  any  bypath  of  memory  that  en 
larged  his  view  of  her. 

Only  when  Schonberg's  ominous  shadow  loomed  on  the 
horizon,  pain  stabbed  her  afresh:  and  sitting  up  suddenly,  she 
clenched  her  small  hands. 

"Mon  Dieu,  but  I  want  to  murder  him!" 

It  was  no  mere  impotent  cry  of  the  heart.  It  was  ingrained 
Latin  hatred  of  '  les  sales  Bodies '  aflame  in  her  individual  soul. 

Derek  loved  these  flashes  of  racial  spirit  in  her;  and  his  hand 
closed  over  hers  that  had  descended  vehemently  on  his  knee. 

"It  would  give  me  the  utmost  satisfaction,"  he  said  gravely, 
"to  do  the  business  for  you  myself.  This  War  has  reawakened, 
in  thousands  of  us,  the  old  virile  demand  for  retribution.  The 
milk  and  water  methods  of  civilized  justice  hardly  meet  the 
case." 

She  nodded,  half  smiling,  but  the  inner  fire  was  not  quenched. 

"We  can  do  nothing!  And  he  will  flourish  —  flourish!"  she 
went  on,  the  same  passionate  protest  in  her  low  tone.  "He  is 
Germany  incarnate.  And  to  think  there  are  scores  of  our  own 
people  who  can  still  make  excuses,  still  speak  and  think  of 
Germany  without  loathing!  Hatred  is  for  equals.  Can  they 
possibly  sink  to  lower  depths?  Yet,  even  if  we  win,  shall  we 
ever  be  allowed  to  smite  them  hip  and  thigh?" 

"I  have  my  doubts,"  said  Derek,  knowing  his  own  country 
men  —  the  chivalry  on  one  side  of  the  shield,  the  apathy, 
tinged  with  self-interest,  on  the  other. 

She  sighed.  For  the  moment  her  wrath  was  spent.  "Yet 
Utopians  can  still  persuade  themselves  that  this  War  is  to  end 
war!  Nous  verrons!  Are  we  seriously  going  to  beat  our  aero 
planes  into  ploughshares  and  our  battleships  into  fire-irons?" 

Derek  shook  his  head.  "On  the  contrary  —  I  fancy  wTe  are 
in  for  a  fresh  cycle  of  war.  Karl  and  I  came  to  that  conclusion 
last  tune  we  talked  of  things." 

The  mention  of  Karl  reminded  him  of  Mrs.  Lester's  remark. 


458  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"  Wonder  what  took  him  to  Randchester.     Poor  chap!    There's 
no  getting  quit  of  his  father.     I  expect  I  shall  hear  soon." 

He  heard  next  morning:  a  brief  note,  merely  announcing 
Karl's  imminent  arrival  on  the  scene. 

There's  been  the  devil  to  pay  up  here  [he  wrote].  I  am  coming 
down  at  once  to  see  Lord  Avonleigh.  I  can't  write  about  it  all. 
But  I  should  be  awfully  glad  of  a  talk  with  you.  Please  give  Mrs. 
Blount  my  deepest,  sincerest  sympathy;  and  if  she  would  really 
rather  not  see  me,  perhaps  you  and  I  can  meet  elsewhere. 

Derek  handed  the  open  sheet  to  Gabrielle,  who  was  making 
tea.  "It's  for  you  to  answer  that.  I  believe  I  told  you  long 
ago  that  Karl  was  the  goods." 

Gabrielle  glanced  through  it.  When  she  looked  up,  tears 
stood  in  her  eyes. 

"Wire,  darling,"  she  said.  "Ask  him  to  come  —  and  stay 
the  night." 


CHAPTER  IV 

It  is  a  force  of  man's  own  creating  that  plays  the  most 
active  part  in  what  it  pleases  us  to  term  'fatality? 

MAETERLINCK 

IT  was  a  peremptory  wire  from  Schonberg  that  had  taken  Karl 
to  Randchester  at  the  moment  of  all  others  when  he  would 
rather  have  been  elsewhere.  He  had,  in  fact,  not  been  home 
since  the  summer.  If  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  denounce 
his  father,  he  could  at  least  keep  clear  of  him. 

But  the  telegram  had  been  imperative:  "Come  up  here  at 
once.  A  matter  of  business." 

The  last  had  made  him  feel  curious  and  uneasy.  Schonberg 
had  spent  most  of  the  autumn  at  Randchester;  and,  for  some 
time,  Karl  had  been  dreading  developments.  Driving  from  the 
station,  through  slush  and  deep  drifts  of  soiled  snow,  he  felt 
suddenly  impelled  to  stop  at  Warton  Grange.  From  a  brief 
talk  with  Burlton  he  might  glean  some  idea  of  how  the  land 
lay.  From  his  father  he  would  glean  only  such  items  as  it 
suited  that  gentleman  to  reveal. 

But  the  parlourmaid  informed  him  that  Mr.  Burlton  was  en 
gaged  —  with  Mr.  Schonberg. 

"Tell  him  I  called,"  said  Karl;  and  drove  on  to  'Freischiitz' 
(now  Freelands),  where  he  learnt  from  the  good  Anna  that  there 
was  'something  in  the  wind.'  Adolf  was  in  a  strange  humour. 
But  he  had  told  her  nothing.  He  never  did.  She  simply 
stated  the  fact,  without  a  hint  of  reproach;  and  Karl,  increas 
ingly  uneasy,  remarked  that  he  would  await  his  father  in  the 
study. 

It  was  nearly  nine  months  since  he  had  last  set  foot  in  that 
stuffy,  unlovely  room  that  was  as  redolent  of  Schonberg's  per 
sonality  as  of  his  strong  tobacco.  Its  shabbiness  and  stuffiness 
embalmed  memories  that  seemed  silently  to  rebuke  him  for  his 


460  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

attitude  of  detachment  and  tacit  distrust:  and  to-day,  it  vividly 
recalled  the  occasion  on  which  he  had  spoken  of  Van's  offer  — 
his  hidden  eagerness  hampered  by  galling  doubt,  where  there 
should  have  been  mutual  confidence  and  good  faith. 

The  essential  Karl  had  travelled  a  long  way  since  then: 
yet  here  —  to  the  least  detail  —  everything  looked  eternally  the 
same.  The  faded  red  curtains  were  many  degrees  more  faded. 
Schonberg  had  a  queer  sentimental  kink  about  his  personal 
belongings,  and  he  would  not  have  them  changed.  There  were 
slits  in  the  bamboo  blind  and  the  great  leather  chair  and  hearth 
rug  looked  shabbier  than  ever.  The  doleful  castor-oil  plant 
had  given  place  to  a  hardly  less  doleful  fern;  and  now,  as  then, 
the  only  gleam  of  freshness  in  the  room  was  contributed  by  the 
vase  of  chrysanthemums  under  his  mother's  portrait. 

"They,  at  any  rate,  have  been  changed!"  he  reflected  with  a 
flicker  of  humour. 

But  the  flicker  wras  short-lived.  Instinctively  he  knew  him 
self  in  touch  with  tragedy;  with  the  full  force  of  his  father's 
secretly  inimical  personality.  And  all  his  own  deep-seated 
antagonism  sprang  to  arms.  What  the  deuce  was  this  mysteri 
ous  matter  of  business  .  .  .  ? 

His  father's  deliberate  step  sounded  in  the  hall;  and  when 
the  door  opened,  Karl  had  a  glimpse  of  him  before  he  knew 
himself  not  alone.  His  heavy  face  was  set  and  stern;  his  lower 
lip  thrust  out;  and  the  downward  droop  of  the  head  made  his 
whole  aspect  seem  curiously  unfamiliar.  It  was  a  mere  im 
pression,  gone  in  a  flash.  The  next  moment  he  looked  up  and 
beheld  his  son  standing  on  the  hearthrug,  his  back  to  the  fire. 

Karl  had  been  less  than  human  could  he  have  seen,  unmoved, 
the  transfiguration  of  his  father's  insensitive  face.  Nothing 
threatening  now  in  the  sudden  lift  of  his  lids. 

"Zo/    You  are  here.     Goot." 

Softly  closing  the  door,  he  came  forward  and  deposited  a 
large  hand  on  Karl's  shoulder. 

"I  expegted  you  earlier.     You  were  delayed?" 

"Yes.  I  got  away  as  soon  as  I  could,"  Karl  answered  in  a 
contained  voice.  He  felt  uncomfortably  conscious  of  some- 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  461 

thing  more  than  affection  in  his  father's  grasp;  something  pos 
sessive,  compelling,  from  which  he  shrank  in  every  fibre  of  his 
being. 

Schonberg,  whether  aware  or  unaware,  tightened  his  hold  a 
moment;  seemed  to  search  his  son's  eyes  for  some  glimmer  of 
response;  and  failing  to  find  it,  let  his  hand  fall  heavily. 

"If  you  had  come  sooner  —  it  is  pozzible  —  "  He  paused 
and  lifted  his  big  shoulders.  "  But  —  perhaps  —  no?  If  not 
now  —  later.  It  is  Fate." 

"What  is?  Why  talk  in  riddles?"  Karl  flung  out,  goaded  to 
impatience  by  the  lurking  sense  of  trouble  in  the  air. 

"I  am  speaging  of  myself  and  Burlton,"  Schonberg  answered 
with  more  than  his  usual  deliberation.  "If  you  will  be  goot 
enough  to  sit  down  —  and  keep  your  temper  —  you  shall  hear 
what  I  haf  to  tell." 

He  set  the  example  by  subsiding  into  his  desk  chair  and 
proceeding  to  fill  the  bowl  of  his  long,  drooping  pipe.  Karl 
watched  the  process  a  moment  half  fascinated,  half  repelled; 
then,  deliberately  avoiding  the  seat  of  inquisition  that  faced 
the  window,  he  drew  a  stiff,  high  chair  near  the  fire,  set  a  foot 
upon  the  fender  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Well?  "he  asked  curtly. 

"Well  —  only  this  —  there  is  no  Burltons  any  more." 

Karl  fairly  jumped.     "  What  the  devil  — ?  " 

"Whether  the  defil,  or  not,  is  a  matter  of  opinion,"  his  father 
retorted,  pressing  down  his  tobacco  with  the  formidable  thumb 
that  had  been  one  of  the  terrors  of  Karl's  childhood.  "It  is 
his  own  doing  —  his  own  dezision." 

Karl  looked  sceptical.  "In  that  case,"  he  said,  "the  crux 
is  —  who  .  .  .  what  drove  him  to  a  decision  so  disastrous,  so 
utterly  unlike  himself?" 

This  time,  the  sudden  lift  of  the  eyelids  was  not  pleasant  to 
see. 

"  For  answer  to  that  riddle,  you  must  consult  —  his  Maker. 
I  haf,  shust  now,  left  him  —  inzenzible.  Apoplexy." 

Again  Karl  started  and  drew  in  his  lips.  "A  stroke?  — 
Fatal?"  he  asked  sharply. 


462  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

His  father  shrugged.  "I  imachine  —  not.  But  bad  enough 
to  be  very  unpleasant  —  for  him.  When  a  man  with  a  thig  neg 
is  over  fifty,  it  begomes  a  danger  to  be  obstinate  without  reason 
and  to  gwarrel  hotly  with  his  friends.  Bad  lug  for  Burlton. 
But  for  the  firm—  "  another  shrug.  "We  shall  see.  He  has 
been  leetle  use  laidly  —  and  he  knew  it." 

That  was  too  much  for  Karl.  "Good  God!"  he  broke  out. 
"How  can  you  sit  there  discussing,  in  cold  blood,  the  man  you 
have  worked  with  all  these  years  —  while  he  lies  broken  — 
dying,  for  aught  you  know  —  or  care?" 

"Prezizely."  Schonberg  muttered  confidentially  to  the  bowl 
of  his  pipe.  "Nashural  enough,  I  am  sorry  for  Burlton.  Too 
obstinate.  But  a  goot  fellow.  For  myself  —  I  shed  no  grogo- 
diles'  tears.  We  tried  to  worg  together.  We  cannot.  So 
mush  the  worse  —  for  him.  It  was  yesterday  —  before  I  wired, 
that  he  decided  to  withdraw." 

"Was  that  why  you  sent  for  me?"  Karl  asked  abruptly. 
For  a  sudden  thought  stabbed  him.  Had  he  been  dragged  up 
all  this  way  only  that  his  father  might  avoid  putting  awkward 
details  on  paper? 

"Yes  —  and  no,"  was  the  enigmatic  answer.  Schonberg's 
strange  eyes  lingered  a  moment  on  the  one  being  whom  he 
genuinely  loved,  who  stood  only  second,  in  his  affection,  to  the 
great  "  Ueber  Alles."  "  You  are  in  a  gweer  mood  to-day,  Karl," 
he  said,  a  kindlier  note  in  his  voice. 

But  Karl  was  adamant.  "Well  —  of  course—  '  he  said, 
without  looking  round.  "I'm  anxious  -  -  upset.  I  have  a 
human  heart  in  my  body.  Go  on.  What  did  Burlton  say? 
Now  I've  come  —  let's  hear  it  all." 

Leaning  forward,  an  elbow  on  his  knee  he  sat  staring  into  the 
fire,  while  Schonberg  vouchsafed  him  a  skilfully  bowdlerized 
version  of  the  worm  that  turned.  As  regards  the  final  scene, 
which  had  culminated  in  tragedy,  he  chose  to  be  more  enigmatic. 
It  was  entirely  a  matter  between  themselves :  a  matter  on  which 
he  had  not  supposed  Burlton  would  'cut  up  rough.'  But  the 
English  as  a  race  were  unreasonable  and  obstinate  beyond  be 
lief  —  and  Burlton  was  English  to  the  marrow.  He  had  worked 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  463 

himself  up  into  a  fury  over  some  preconceived  notion.  Argu 
ment  was  useless.  And  that  'verdammt  Lester  woman'  had 
treated  him  —  Schonberg  —  as  if  he  were  a  murderer  .  .  . 

Clever  as  he  was,  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  Karl  —  whose 
good  opinion  he  had  particular  reason  to  desire  just  then  — 
was  sufficiently  his  son  to  be  a  skilled  hand  at  reading  between 
the  lines.  As  each  fresh  inkling  of  the  truth  flashed  on  him, 
his  anger  quickened  to  a  fiercer  flame  that  was  steadily  burn 
ing  up  all  the  old  fear,  the  old  reluctance,  which  had  hitherto 
kept  him  from  open  collision  with  the  father  he  had  grown  to 
hate.  And  the  pain,  the  tragedy,  at  the  back  of  it  all,  added 
fuel  to  the  fire.  Kindly  John  Burl  ton,  stricken  and  helpless; 
Mrs.  Lester  —  the  boys  —  and  above  all  —  Gabrielle  — ! 

The  ferment  of  his  own  sensations  distracted  his  mind,  now 
and  then,  from  what  his  father  was  saying,  and  suddenly  —  in 
the  midst  of  one  such  passing  aberration  —  he  realized  that  he 
was  being  tactfully  pressed  to  throw  up  Avonleigh  and  be 
come  a  partner  in  the  firm. 

"  Schonberg  —  and  Son.  -  What  do  you  say,  my  boy?  "  There 
was  genuine  feeling  in  his  father's  tone.  "A  big  prifilege  for  one 
so  young.  But  already  you  haf  shown  the  goot  stuff  in  you  — " 

At  that,  Karl  —  the  cautious  and  contained  —  suddenly 
faced  about  with  blazing  eyes. 

"I've  this  much  good  stuff  in  me  that  I  have  no  hesitation 
whatever  in  declining  the  privilege;  and  if  you  expected  any 
other  answer,  I  can  only  say  —  you  don't  yet  know  your  own 
son.  I've  noticed  a  lot  these  last  years.  And  I've  thought  a 
lot.  And  I've  kept  my  mouth  shut.  But  this  time  you've 
overreached  yourself.  In  plain  English,  you've  robbed  Burl- 
ton  of  his  firm.  You  are  morally  responsible  for  the  fact  that 
he  is  lying  there  now,  as  good  as  dead  —  worse  than  dead,  poor 
fellow!  I  tell  you  straight  —  I'm  not  proud  of  the  connection. 
And  I'm  damned  if  I'll  touch  any  concern  of  yours  with  a  pair 
of  tongs  — 

In  the  heat  of  his  anger,  he  rose  and  gripped  the  edge  of  the 
mantelpiece,  and  at  the  same  moment,  Schonberg  brought  his 
fist  down  upon  the  desk  with  a  startling  thud. 


464  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Stop  that!"  he  thundered,  in  a  voice  of  mingled  rage  and 
pain.  "Nefer  has  any  man  dared  speak  zo  to  me.  And  you 
—  Gott  im  Himmel!  —  my  Freda's  flesh  and  blood  — ! " 

He  broke  off  with  a  queer,  choking  sound. 

For  once,  the  man  behind  the  mental  machine  looked  out  of 
his  pale  eyes  —  not  at  his  son,  but  at  the  portrait  of  his  dead 
wife  above  the  mantelpiece. 

Karl  —  startled  and  shaken  —  looked  in  the  same  direction, 
as  if  for  guidance  in  this  critical,  difficult  hour.  And  she,  who 
had  been  the  one  real  link  between  them,  gazed  wistfully  back 
at  both  —  powerless  to  intervene. 

There  wras  a  moment  of  tense  silence.  Then  Karl  said  more 
gently:  "It  is  her  spirit  in  me  that  is  always  goading  me  to 
speak  straight  —  to  act  straight  ...  at  whatever  cost.  And 
this  affair  about  settles  things.  I  shall  take  her  name,  and  — 
join  the  Army." 

Schonberg  drew  a  long  breath;  and  his  eyes  shifted  slowly 
from  the  dead  face  to  the  living  one. 

"My  boy,  you  will  not  do  any  such  thing,"  he  said  in  a 
repressed  voice. 

And  Karl  answered,  without  wavering:  "I  shall  go  straight 
from  here  to  Lord  Avonleigh  —  and  explain  — 

"That  your  respegted  father  is  a  sgoundrel  —  hein?"  The 
question  was  almost  a  snarl. 

"No  —  that  I  am  keen  to  have  an  active  hand  in  smashing 
Germany;  to  disclaim  —  as  far  as  I  can  —  my  unwilling  link 
with  a  country  of  liars  and  assassins." 

The  quiet  of  his  tone  contrasted  strangely  with  the  passion 
of  a  few  minutes  earlier.  For  the  first  time  he  saw  his  father's 
jaw  drop.  Queer  blotches  of  pallor  appeared  on  his  face;  and 
the  hand  that  still  rested  on  the  desk  was  clenched  so  that  the 
knuckles  stood  out  through  the  thick  white  flesh. 

"Zo!  You  are  the  pingk  of  patriotism  —  hein!  Or  is  it  per 
haps  —  you  cannot  bear  to  see  your  so  dear  friend  Dereg  pos 
sessing  —  the  woman  you  love?" 

At  that  unsuspected  thrust,  Karl  reddened  furiously.  And 
Schonberg  nodded;  watching  him  through  narrowed  eyes. 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  465 

"A-ach!  You  imachined  I  did  not  know?  My  goot  boy,  I  saw 
the  beginning  long  ago,  in  your  vagations.  And  since  then,  I 
haf  seen  —  you  do  not  run  after  women.  Zo!  I  hated  always 
that  French  girl.  She  went  against  me.  But  I  had  the  better 
of  it  —  '  He  chuckled,  as  at  some  satisfying  thought.  "Nefer- 
theless,  if  at  first  you  had  gonfided  in  me,  you  were  in  earnest 
—it  might  have  been  otherwise.  It  is  pozzible.  I  could  have 
arranched  — 

"You?"  Karl  flung  out  with  concentrated  bitterness.  "I 
lost  any  ghost  of  a  chance  that  I  might  have  had,  simply 
through  being  —  your  son.  You  have  been  no  blessing  to 
me,  Father.  Nor  I  to  you,  perhaps.  But,  at  least  —  you  have 
others." 

"Those!"  Schonberg  dismissed  them  with  a  snap  of  his 
thick  finger  and  thumb.  "Karl  — •  you  will  not  leaf  me  —  you 
will  not  join  this  War  — 

His  voice  hovered  strangely  between  command  and  appeal, 
and,  for  a  breathing  space,  Karl  wavered.  It  was  the  hardest 
moment  of  his  life. 

"You  yourself  have  made  it  a  case  of  'must,'"  he  said 
quietly.  "And  it  is  better  —  for  us  both  —  that  the  break 
should  be  final." 

Then,  while  courage  held,  he  swung  round,  picked  up  stick 
and  cap,  and  walked  to  the  door.  He  dared  not  attempt  a 
word  of  farewell. 

As  he  grasped  the  handle,  he  heard  an  uncertain  sound  be 
hind  him.  It  might  have  been  a  grunt  of  derision.  It  seemed 
more  like  a  stifled  groan.  It  was  all  he  could  do  not  to  turn 
back.  .  .  . 

Two  minutes  later,  he  pulled  the  front  door  to,  with  a 
dull  bang  —  and  discovered  that  he  was  shaking  in  every 
limb. 

Again,  for  a  few  seconds  he  hesitated;  then  sharply  pulled 
himself  together  and  went  straight  to  Warton  Grange. 

In  that  house  of  sorrow,  he  was  received  as  a  brother  and  a 
son.  There  was  little  he  could  do  for  them  all;  but  that  little 


466  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

he  did.  Neither  he  nor  Mrs.  Lester  so  much  as  mentioned  his 
father's  name.  From  there  he  wrote  to  Derek:  and  there, 
next  morning,  his  heart  was  lifted  in  him  by  the  telegram  con 
veying  Gabrielle's  invitation  to  "come  by  all  means  and  stay 
the  night." 


CHAPTER  V 

The  fathers  have  eaten  sour  grapes;  and  the  children's  teeth  are  set  on  edge. 

EZEKIEL,  xvni,  2 

So  Karl  Schonberg  came  to  the  black  and  white  House  on  the 
Hill  with  a  strange  mixture  of  dread  and  longing  in  his  heart. 
The  obstinate  persistence  of  his  love  for  Gabrielle  implied  no 
disloyalty  to  Derek.  If  a  man  plucked  the  moon  out  of  heaven, 
he  could  not  quarrel  with  devout  worshippers  less  fortunate 
than  himself.  Moreover  he,  Karl,  had  the  start  of  Derek  by  a 
good  many  years;  and  no  true  lover  could  un-love  such  as  she. 

The  event  had  surprised  him  vastly;  and  the  mystery  of 
Van's  eclipse  had  never  been  solved.  But  surprise  had  been 
tinged  with  relief.  He  could  just  endure  the  idea  of  Derek, 
for  whom  he  cherished  a  half-puzzled  admiration,  and  who  was 
—  at  least,  in  a  measure  —  worthy  of  his  great  good  fortune. 
But  on  one  point  Karl  felt  arrogantly  certain.  No  man  living 
could  give  her  quite  the  same  fine  flower  of  devotion  that  blos 
somed  in  his  own  constant  soul.  The  graciousness  of  her  in 
vitation,  at  this  tragical  juncture,  overwhelmed  him.  Only 
one  thing  he  dreaded  —  to  see  the  shadow  of  tragedy  in  her 
eyes  — 

He  had  left  town  very  early,  spent  an  hour  with  Lord  Avon- 
leigh  and  accepted  a  pressing  invitation  to  stay  on  for  lunch, 
though  his  heart  tugged  at  his  body  to  be  gone. 

Arrived  in  the  stone- flagged  garden,  he  found  Derek  alone. 
The  fact  that  both  men  were  deeply  moved  made  them  a  trifle 
constrained;  but  the  force  of  Derek's  grasp  atoned  for  his 
native  inability  to  make  the  correct  remark,  however  sincere. 

"It's  good  to  see  you  again,"  he  said.  "Come  and  have  a 
look  at  our  terrace.  Gabrielle  had  to  go  out  after  lunch.  But 
she  won't  be  long." 

Neither  man  guessed  that  her  errand  to  an  invalid  neighbour 


468  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

was  a  pious  fiction.  Karl,  she  felt  sure,  would  have  much  to 
say  that  could  not  well  be  said  in  her  presence:  which  was 
true.  Yet  he  would  scarce  have  been  grateful  to  her,  had  he 
known. 

Rounding  the  house,  they  came  upon  the  miniature  terrace 
with  its  stone  balustrade,  its  oak  settles  and  low  deep  hedge  of 
golden  yew.  And  beyond  and  around  —  the  sea  and  the  har 
bour  and  the  billowing  glade  of  the  golf  links,  enriched  with 
russet  patches  of  bracken  and  walled  in,  along  the  ridge,  by  a 
belt  of  tall  old  pines.  Here  and  there,  a  few  red  houses  of  the 
new-made  rich  asserted  man's  inalienable  right  to  live,  no  mat 
ter  how  much  the  process  may  disfigure  the  face  of  earth. 
Within  the  harbour,  the  sea  was  like  a  mirror,  framed  in  the 
foreshore  and  the  Purbeck  hills  and  the  narrow  belt  of  sand 
dunes,  with  its  outcrop  of  toy  bungalows;  their  angularities 
bitten  sharply  out  of  the  shimmering  sea.  At  the  end  of  the 
point,  more  bungalows  clustered  picturesquely;  their  foreign 
air  enhanced  by  the  softness  and  the  sunshine,  and  a  group 
of  weather-beaten  pines,  in  Japanesque  isolation,  between  the 
terrace  and  the  sea. 

No  visible  intrusion  of  man  marred  the  tender  sweep  of  the 
hills,  their  seaward  cliffs  worn  by  the  restless  beat  of  waves. 
At  the  far  end,  one  slim  strip  stood  detached,  as  it  were,  a  lone 
sentinel  guarding  the  harbour  and  the  bay  beyond.  A  flood  of 
pale  sunlight,  breaking  through  curded  clouds,  illumined  all  the 
sea.  Dark  on  bright,  the  dunes  and  foreshore  and  the  lone 
pines  were  graven  like  an  etching;  and  inland,  above  the  ridge, 
loomed  a  threatening  bank  of  cloud  —  like  war  brooding  in 
the  heart  of  peace. 

Karl's  deep-seated  sense  of  beauty  and  his  very  mixed  emo 
tions  held  him  silent  for  a  space.  Then  he  let  out  a  great  sigh. 

"What  a  ripping  place!  The  contrast  —  after  Randchester! 
I  left  it  a  foot  deep  in  snow;  and  London's  ankle  deep  in  slush." 

They  sat  down  on  the  bench,  outside  the  bay  window,  and 
Derek  indicated  the  bank  of  cloud  with  his  pipe. 

"It's  finding  us  out.  I  hope  it  won't  be  too  bad  —  because 
of  Father.  Are  you  .  .  .  chucking  your  job?" 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  469 

"Yes  —  for  khaki,  under  my  mother's  name.  I  may  be 
called  up  any  day  now.  And  I'd  sooner  volunteer." 

"Naturally.    What  did  Father  say  to  that? " 

"He  sincerely  regrets  the  necessity;  but  he  approves  my 
decision.  He  was  kindness  itself.  And  he  meant  it  all.  I 
could  see  that.  He  showed  more  knowledge  and  appreciation 
of  my  work  than  —  Van  has  done  in  all  these  years  on  the  spot. 
I'd  give  my  soul  to  stay  and  carry  on  for  him,  if  things  hadn't 
gone  so  beastly  contrary  all  round.  He  has  made  a  bigger  im 
pression  on  me,  in  two  conversations,  than  half  our  mushroom 
notabilities  that  I've  met  dozens  of  times  in  Town." 

Derek  smiled  thoughtfully,  looking  out  to  sea. 

"How  did  you  think  him  looking?" 

Karl  hesitated.     "  You  want  the  truth?  " 

"Of  course." 

"Well  —  the  change  gave  me  quite  a  turn.  Is  there  any 
thing  seriously  wrong?" 

"I'm  afraid  so.  Dr.  Farrar  was  down  the  other  day.  I 
asked  him  some  straight  questions;  and  he  said,  normally, 
Father  ought  to  have  a  good  chance.  But  he  seems  —  broken 
up.  The  Bombay  climate  and  the  shock  of  that  wretched 
affair  last  summer  — " 

He  checked  himself,  remembering  the  malign  influence  at  the 
back  of  that  affair. 

Karl  frowned  and  reddened.  "Don't  mind  me,  old  chap. 
I've  been  facing  facts  these  few  days;  and  they're  about  as  ugly 
as  they  can  be.  Your  father  and  .  .  .  hers  —  the  nearest  to  it 
she's  ever  had  —  and  ...  at  the  back  of  it  all  ...  mine  I" 
He  sucked  in  his  lips  in  the  old  fashion  that  used  to  annoy  Van. 
His  eyes  looked  hard  and  strained.  "My  God!  Dejek,  life's 
a  damned  bitter  business  for  some  of  us  just  now." 

Derek  said  nothing.  His  sympathy  went  too  deep:  and  Karl, 
by  this  time,  understood  his  friend's  odd  silences. 

"I  couldn't  help  thinking  this  morning,"  he  added,  after  a 
pause,  "if  I'd  been  blessed  with  a  father  like  that  — !" 

"It's  no  such  easy  matter  living  up  to  him." 

Karl  jerked  his  head  round.     But  Derek's  eyes  gave  no  sign. 


470  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"Well  —  I'd  have  a  try  at  it,  anyway.  Has  it  ever  even 
occurred  to  Van,  I  wonder?  Or  does  he  imagine  he  was  born 
worthy—?" 

''Not  altogether  his  fault  if  he  does.  —  Did  you  see  him  in 
Town?  Does  he  mind  about  your  going?  " 

Karl  shrugged.  "He  took  it  rather  as  a  personal  grievance. 
I  said,  '  Why  not  come  along  too? '  He  said  he  had  been  think 
ing  of  it  seriously.  I  left  him  thinking!" 

Scepticism  lurked  in  Karl's  tone;  and  Derek  gave  him  a 
quick  look.  "What's  up?  You're  not  chucking  Van  —  at 
this  time  of  day?" 

"It's  hardly  a  case  of  chucking.  He  just  lets  people  slide 
through  his  fingers.  Frankly,  I've  lost  patience  with  him  dur 
ing  the  War.  It's  an  acid  test  of  character." 

Derek  did  not  answer  at  once.  Then  he  said  quietly:  "Poor 
old  Van!  He  was  hard  hit  —  all  round,  last  year.  Do  you 
know  —  does  he  ever  see  Mr.  Schonberg  these  days?" 

"Not  often,  I  think.  My  father  doesn't  squander  time  or 
energy  on  mere  friendship;  and  he's  had  his  hands  full,  up 
North.  I  don't  believe  he  thought  that  worm  would  turn. 
Good  God !  It  was  a  hell  of  a  business !  When  he  told  me  about 
Burlton,  I  saw  red.  And  I  let  myself  go  —  for  the  first  time. 
Once  I  started,  I  didn't  mince  matters  — 

He  rose  and  paced  the  terrace,  shaken  by  the  memory  of  it 
all.  Then,  in  broken  phrases,  he  re-created  that  unforgettable 
half -hour  —  so  far  as  he  could  bring  himself  to  put  it  into  words. 
For  he  coveted  Derek's  good  opinion;  and  he  wanted  Gabrielle 
to  know  .  .  . 

At  last,  flinging  away  his  cigarette,  he  came  to  a  standstill; 
hands  thrust  in  pockets,  his  face  working  with  suppressed 
emotion. 

"I  tell  you,  Derek,  I  hit  the  bull's-eye  every  time.  In  all 
my  days,  I've  hardly  seen  him  turn  a  hair.  But  —  he  did 
care  for  my  mother ;  and,  in  his  queer  way,  he  cares  for  me.  He 
went  livid  before  I'd  done.  And  the  deuce  of  it  was  I  found  I 
had  been  hurting  myself  hardly  less  than  him.  It's  a  mysteri 
ous  business,  that  link  of  the  blood.  Trips  me  up  at  every 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  471 

turn.  If  I  go  out  there,  as  a  British  officer,  and  —  get  done  in, 
I  shall  deal  him  the  hardest  blow  of  his  life.  But  what  the 
devil  is  a  man  in  my  enviable  position  to  do?" 

"Go  straight  ahead,  old  man,  and  'leave  the  boss  to  do  the 
worrying,'"  said  Derek  in  his  quietest  voice;  though  Schon- 
berg  himself  could  scarcely  have  been  more  surprised  at  Karl's 
uncharacteristic  outburst.  "That  was  my  pal  Mick  Sayers's 
motto.  It  made  a  woodsman  of  me.  I  back  it  to  make  a 
soldier  of  you.  Consequences  are  not  your  affair.  Your 
father  must  take  his  chance  like  —  better  men." 

Karl  let  out  a  great  breath.  "  Oh,  I  am  going  all  right.  But, 
at  present,  I  feel  more  like  tramping  the  country  and  preach 
ing  the  gospel  that  victory  in  the  field  will  be  precious  little 
use  unless  we  couple  it  with  drastic  surgical  operations  over 
here.  Men  like  Van  and  Burlton  will  always  be  a  standing 
danger  to  this  country,  so  long  as  we  are  fools  enough  to  reckon 
a  man's  nationality  by  his  place  of  residence  instead  of  the 
blood  in  his  veins  — !" 

At  that  point  he  stopped  dead;  and  the  change  that  came  over 
him  was  not  lost  on  Derek. 

Unnoticed  by  either,  Gabrielle  had  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  and  now  she  stood  there,  framed  in  the  open  window  — 
a  living  picture,  in  her  furs  and  velvet  cap. 

"You  seem  to  be  improving  the  shining  hour!"  she  said,  smil 
ing  on  them  both.  "Isn't  it  a  heavenly  spot?  Welcome!" 

Leaning  over  the  sill  she  stretched  out  her  hand;  and  Karl 
held  it  hard,  without  a  word. 

Derek  —  who  had  risen  and  removed  his  pipe  —  stood  watch 
ing  them  with  friendly,  speculative  eyes.  Not  even  to  him 
had  she  spoken  of  Karl's  confession  on  that  moonlight  night  of 
May. 

As  for  Karl  himself,  his  quiet  evening  in  the  black  and  white 
house  was  one  of  those  unobtrusive  events,  that  have  neither 
drama  nor  any  outward  trappings  of  emotion,  yet  crystallize  in 
the  memory  and  abide  there  when  greater  happenings  have 
grown  dim.  Jarred  all  through  by  the  pain  and  strain  of  the 
last  two  days,  it  healed  his  spirit  simply  to  be  in  the  room  with 


472  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Gabrielle,  to  watch  her  movements  and  hear  her  voice. 
Though  the  whole  world  were  at  war,  between  these  four  walls 
there  was  peace  that  is  born  of  understanding.  After  the 
bovine  domesticity  at  Randchester  and  the  obvious  under 
current  of  strain  between  Lord  and  Lady  Avonleigh,  the  im 
pression  of  a  free  unity  between  these  two,  and  their  implicit 
joy  in  each  other,  shone  out  like  a  clear  and  beautiful  light. 

Not  that  they  were  demonstrative:  rather  the  reverse.  It 
was  a  matter  of  atmosphere;  and  Karl  was  a  sensitive  subject. 
Derek,  having  had  his  innings,  tacitly  surrendered  his  wife  to 
their  guest,  who  —  even  while  appreciating  the  arrangement 
—  could  not  escape  the  characteristic  thought:  "I  don't  be 
lieve  the  dear  devoted  fellow  really  knows  much  about  being  in 
love.  /  would  have  given  her  an  ardour  of  adoration  of  which 
he  is  simply  incapable." 

To  every  man  his  secret  bread;  and  for  Karl  there  was  sus 
tenance,  of  a  sort,  in  the  innate  belief  that,  as  a  son,  he  would 
have  been  worthier  of  Van's  father;  as  a  husband  —  in  devotion, 
at  least  —  worthier  of  Derek's  wife. 

After  dinner,  she  spoke  to  him  of  Burlton,  very  composedly, 
though  tears  gleamed  in  her  eyes.  He  told  her  how  he  went 
over  to  the  Grange,  how  Mrs.  Lester  had  treated  him  as  one  of 
themselves,  allowing  him  to  help  her  in  every  possible  way. 
And  he  thrilled  unashamedly  at  her  significant  remark:  "Aunt 
Alice  is  a  dear  good  soul.  I  will  never  call  her  tepid  or  narrow 
again." 

Then  there  was  music;  and  they  played  together,  while  Derek, 
in  his  chair  by  the  fire,  contentedly  smoked  and  browsed  on  the 
Nineteenth  Century. 

When  she  asked  for  the  'Serenade,'  Karl  shook  his  head. 
"Never  again!" 

Up  went  her  brows  in  mute  enquiry. 

"I  can't  play  that  ...  as  it  should  be  played,  any  more." 
He  paused  and  added  scarcely  above  his  breath:  "A  window 
was  opened  after  all." 

"Foolish!  Such  beautiful  music!"  She  rebuked  him  with 
deliberate  lightness. 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  473 

He  reddened  under  her  praise.  "For  me  it  has  one  great 
merit,"  he  said  in  the  same  low  tone.  "It  —  served  its  turn." 

She  shook  her  head  decisively.  "Not  permitted,"  she  said: 
and  dashed  into  a  little  lively  humouresque,  just  as  Derek 
looked  up  to  ask  what  was  the  hitch  in  the  programme. 

If  he  did  not  indulge  in  sentimental  genuflections,  he  was 
sufficiently  a  lover  to  feel  something  in  the  air  — 


CHAPTER  VI 

Misfortune,  like  water,  espouses  the  form  of  the  vase  that  contains  it. 

MAETERLINCK 

DEREK'S  fears  for  his  father  were  not  unfounded.  Lord  Avon- 
leigh's  health  and  spirits  seemed  to  decline  as  the  days  grew 
colder;  and  the  snow  lay  thick  even  on  the  cliffs  by  the  sea. 
Since  his  return,  there  had  crept  into  his  soul  an  insidious 
weariness  of  life  that  had  never  found  entrance  there  in  all  his 
days.  It  came  partly  from  ill  health,  partly  from  reaction 
after  years  of  responsible  life  and  work  at  high  pressure.  Nor 
were  matters  improved  by  the  ceaseless  undercurrent  of  friction 
with  his  wife. 

Van's  visit  had  precipitated  a  crisis.  She  had  lost  control  of 
herself  —  a  rare  event.  She  had  accused  him  of  harshness  and 
injustice  to  his  first-born,  while  herself  meting  out  such  flagrant 
injustice  to  Derek  as  threw  any  defection  of  his  own  into  the 
shade.  They  had  come  nearer  to  an  open  quarrel  than  at  any 
time  in  their  decorously  detached  married  life.  She  was 
frankly  jealous  of  Derek,  on  Van's  account,  and  secretly  jealous 
of  Marion,  on  her  own.  The  dual  grievance  had  become  al 
most  an  obsession,  and  it  was  getting  on  his  nerves.  No  use 
telling  her  so.  She  was  entirely  preoccupied  with  her  own,  that 
had  been  'worn  to  shreds  by  this  terrible  War.'  She  missed 
London.  She  was  woefully  bored  with  Bournemouth.  Her  one 
ewe  lamb  of  pleasure  was  a  sight  of  Van.  And  now  Evan  had 
deprived  her  of  that,  because  he  could  not  forgive  his  own  son 
for  being  taken  in  by  a  German.  As  if  half  the  cleverest  men  in 
England  had  not  been  taken  in  by  Germans.  And  would  he 
kindly  intimate  to  Marion  that  she  wras  quite  capable,  with 
Mrs.  Consbigh's  assistance,  of  running  her  own  house? 

Though,  in  general,  he  let  this  kind  of  thing  flow  over  him, 


THE  PROUD  FUTURE  475 

and  kept  the  door  of  his  lips,  it  was  no  such  easy  matter  to  keep 
the  door  of  his  thoughts;  and  the  corrosive  acid  of  a  hidden 
bitterness  did  not  quicken  convalescence. 

On  this  particular  occasion,  the  requested  intimation  to 
Marion  took  a  form  altogether  his  own.  There  was  no  one 
in  the  world  like  Marion ;  but,  for  that  very  reason,  he  admitted 
it  might  be  hard  on  Esther.  If  one  could  even  remotely  hope 
that  she  could  rise  to  the  task  of  caring  for  him  .  .  . 

But  one  could  not  remotely  hope  —  therefore  he  compromised. 

"Molly,  my  dear,"  he  said  to  his  sister  next  morning,  when 

she  came  to  talk  'War  news'  with  him  in  the  study,  "you've 

been  on  duty  an  unconscionable  time.    How  about  taking  a 

fortnight's  leave?  " 

She  started  and  gave  him  a  keen  look.     "Esther  — ?" 
His  smile  was  tinged  with  bitterness.     "Frankly  —  yes.     I 
have  been  hoping  it  might  wrork.     But  it's  plain  —  you  can't 
hit  it  off—" 

"And  you  are  to  be  sacrificed  —  to  the  disabilities  of  a  couple 
of  women!"  Pain  and  anger  vibrated  in  her  tone.  "You 
know  well  enough  if  I  did  go,  you  —  or  the  doctor  —  would 
be  wiring  for  me  within  forty-eight  hours.  I've  been  loyal, 
Evan ;  and  I  have  kept  my  mouth  shut  about  her.  But  frankly, 
if  it's  a  case  of  removing  one  of  us,  I  am  prepared  to  insist  it 
shall  not  be  me.  Better  for  her  —  and  you  —  if  she  was  on 
her  back  in  a  Home  of  Rest,  instead  of  making  this  a  home  of 
unrest  for  every  one.  It's  partly  health,  but  it's  chiefly  four 
years  of  semi-detachment !  The  women  who  have  developed  war 
nerves  are  not  those  who  have  done  the  work,  or  paid  the  price, 
but  those  who  —  for  lack  of  real  work  or  pain  —  have  reduced 
worrying  to  a  fine  art." 

Lord  Avonleigh  worked  his  eyebrows,  astonished,  yet  by  no 
means  angered,  at  her  outburst.  "I  believe,"  said  he,  "your 
diagnosis  is  correct.  Four  years  apart  is  too  long  —  at  our 
age.  Stevenson  has  it  that  absence  is  a  good  influence  in  love, 
and  keeps  it  bright;  'but  if  the  feeling  is  more  pedestrian'  — !" 
He  chuckled  grimly  —  "Has  English  literature  his  match  for 
the  mot  juste?" 


476  THE   STRONG  HOURS 

Marion  reduced  her  smile  to  its  least  dimensions.  He  was 
slipping  away  from  the  personal  and  the  emotional,  which 
always  irked  him.  "For  me,  the  mot  juste  this  morning  is  — 
no  surrender!  She  failed  you  when  it  was  her  you  needed. 
Now  it  pleases  her  to  reassert  herself,  when  it  is  me  you  need 
at  every  turn.  There!  If  I've  done  for  myself  —  say  so.  Ex 
cept  under  orders,  from  you,  I  don't  budge." 

Straightly  she  confronted  him,  standing  on  the  hearthrug  — 
a  tall,  virile  figure.  And,  without  a  word,  he  looked  back  at 
her,  sitting  very  erect  in  his  chair  by  the  fire.  Each  read, 
clear  as  print,  the  thoughts  in  the  other's  brain. 

Then  Marion  said  quietly:  "That's  all  right.  Esther,  having 
made  use  of  me,  must  now  make  the  best  of  me."  And,  com 
ing  suddenly  close  to  him,  she  caressed  his  thick  iron-grey 
hair. 

"You  always  were  obstinate,  Molly,"  he  said,  looking  up  at 
her,  gravely  content. 

"Every  man  in  his  time  has  need  to  thank  his  faults,"  she 
retorted;  and  left  him  to  wonder,  at  leisure,  what  the  evening 
of  life  would  have  been  like  without  her. 

Before  three  days  were  over,  he  had  cause  to  bless  her  ob 
stinacy  from  the  depth  of  his  heart. 

A  revival  of  symptoms  involved  a  revival  of  specialists,  who 
probed  him  and  pulled  long  faces  and  vexed  his  sceptical  soul 
—  and  finally  deputed  his  old  friend  Dr.  Farrar  to  set  before 
him  the  fruits  of  their  united  wisdom. 

It  amounted  to  a  choice  between  dragging  on  a  few  months 
longer,  with  the  help  of  ameliorations,  or  taking  the  risk  of  a 
serious  operation  on  the  chance  of  returning  to  normal  health, 
though  scarcely  normal  strength.  Lord  Avonleigh  listened, 
with  his  air  of  polite,  impersonal  interest,  to  the  uninviting 
alternatives. 

"A  very  fair  average  risk  —  I  take  it?"  was  all  he  said;  and 
Dr.  Farrar  reluctantly  admitted  as  much. 

"Of  course,"  he  added,  "we  would  wait  till  you  are  a  little 
stronger." 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  477 

"Very  considerate!  Personally,  I  would  rather  take  my 
chance  and  be  done  with  it." 

Farrar  cleared  his  throat.  He  had  a  large  fund  of  human 
nature  and  a  real  affection  for  his  difficult,  distinguished  patient. 

"There  you  come  up  against  the  medical  conscience,"  he 
said  kindly.  "Myself,  I  think  your  chances  are  good.  But 

—  the   conditions   are   rather   obscure.     Perhaps"  —  he   hesi 
tated —  "you  would  like  to  think  the  matter  over?" 

Lord  Avonleigh's  quick  ear  caught  the  note  of  fellow-feeling. 
He  dropped  his  mask  of  stoicism  and  looked  straight  at  his  old 
friend. 

"My  dear  Farrar  —  I  believe  you  are  more  upset  about 
it  than  I  am.  But  I  prefer  prompt  decisions  and  —  I  incline 
to  take  the  risk.  The  deuce  of  it  is"  —he  rubbed  his  chin 
and  looked  really  distressed  for  the  first  tune  —  "there  will 
be  the  world's  fuss.  And  it's  the  worst  thing  possible  for  my 
wife." 

Dr.  Farrar  nodded.  "  She  is  not  —  very  fit  for  such  a  strain 
I  should  strongly  advise  her  being  elsewhere.  Your  sister  — ?" 

"  Oh,  she's  all  right.  And  of  course  —  now  things  are  settled, 
I  go  straight  back  to  Avonleigh." 

At  that  the  good  doctor's  brows  ran  half  up  his  forehead. 
"  My  dear  Sir !  In  this  weather  —  impossible ! " 

But  remonstrance  and  arguments  broke  like  waves  against 
the  rock  of  Lord  Avonleigh's  resolve.  After  a  stormy  five 
minutes,  Farrar  saw  that  he  was  simply  exhausting  his  patient 
and  making  no  headway  whatever. 

"Take  any  precautions  you  please,"  said  this  most  un 
manageable  of  men.  "Ambulance  —  or  whatever  —  so  long 
as  I  get  there.  Good  Heavens,  man,  I'm  facing  one  big  risk. 
What  matter  another?  If  my  time  is  up  —  I'm  ready.  But 
I  refuse  to  die  in  a  Nursing  Home  or  a  furnished  house.  Now 

—  please  let  me  be." 

He  pulled  himself  up  and  they  shook  hands  in  silence. 

"By  the  way  —  about  my  wife,"  he  added,  as  Farrar  turned 
to  go.  "It  would  be  a  real  kindness  if  you  would  make  things 
clear  to  her  —  You  get  plenty  of  practice  in  your  profession?" 


478  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"A  good  deal  too  much,"  said  Farrar;  and  left  him  alone 
face  to  face  with  the  Immensities. 

He  needed  respite:  and  for  half  an  hour  he  had  it.  Then  the 
sound  of  his  wife's  footstep  drew  him  back  to  the  Trivialities, 
that  drag  the  skirts  of  Tragedy  in  the  dust.  He  steeled  him 
self  to  endure  them.  He  knew  so  painfully  well  the  kind  of 
thing  she  would  say  —  words,  looks,  tones  — 

That  dreary  prescience  is  not  among  the  least  of  married 
miseries,  when  the  years  have  brought  a  deadening  of  familiarity 
and  the  lamp  of  love  has  flickered  out  for  lack  of  oil. 

She  came  —  with  every  appearance  of  distress  partly  sub 
dued:  the  flush  of  tears  on  her  lids,  a  moist  handkerchief  in  the 
hand  pressed  against  her  heart.  It  was  a  familiar  attitude  — 
a  mute  appeal  for  consideration. 

As  he  rose  she  swept  gracefully  forward  and  laid  her  free 
hand  on  his  arm. 

"Oh,  Evan  —  such  a  shock!  So  dreadful!  And  Dr.  Farrar 
says  you've  settled  it  all.  I  should  have  thought  you  might 
have  waited  —  to  talk  it  over  — 

"It  seems  to  be  Hobson's  choice,  my  dear,"  he  said  gently, 
patting  her  hand. 

"I  don't  believe  it.  7  would  have  more  opinions.  You 
have  always  been  so  strong.  I'm  sure  you  could  pull  through 
naturally  —  without  their  horrid  knives.  They  have  simply 
got  a  mania,  nowadays,  for  cutting  people  up  — 

"In  the  interests  of  science,  Esther!"  A  half  smile  twitched 
his  lips.  "I  believe  they  do  it  very  neatly,  and  the  victim  is 
mercifully  not  upset  by  —  the  look  of  things." 

"How  can  you  talk  like  that  —  almost  joke  about  it?" 

"Have  you  never  found  it  necessary  to  laugh  —  lest  you 
should  cry?" 

She  gazed  at  him  with  wide  eyes,  mildly  reproachful.  "  I  may 
be  dense,  Evan,  but  I  have  never  been  hysterical." 

He  charitably  supposed  she  had  misheard  him;  and  answered 
with  unmoved  countenance:  "No.  That  is  an  ailment  you 
have  happily  overlooked."  A  pause.  "You  will  take  Farrar's 
advice  —  about  London?  " 


THE  PROUD  FUTURE  479 

"I  suppose  so."  She  pressed  the  wet  handkerchief  closer 
to  her  heart.  "I  couldn't  stand  being  on  the  spot.  But  still 

—  so  far  away  —  I  shall  die  of  suspense  — 

"A  telephone  message  might  reach  you  in  time  to  avert  the 
calamity." 

"There  you  are  again!"  She  straightened  herself  and  drew 
apart  from  him.  "Can't  you  be  serious  —  over  anything? 
Because  I  control  myself,  I  get  no  sympathy.  You  don't 
realize  how  shaken  I  am.  It  could  hardly  have  come  at  a  more 
unfortunate  moment." 

"Very  careless  of  me,"  he  said  with  grave  courtesy.  "God 
knows  /  hate  the  fuss  of  it  all.  And  if  it  upsets  you  so  —  well 

—  I'd  as  soon  leave  it  to  Nature  and  take  my  chance.    A  few 
months  —  a  few  years  —  no  great  matter,  after  all.    Naturally 
one  would  prefer  the  years.     But  they  won't  guarantee — " 

"Evan  —  stop!"  The  tears  started  and  she  caught  his  arm. 
"It's  too  horrible  .  .  .  when  you  put  it  that  way.  We  won't 
talk  of  it  any  more." 

"That's  better,"  he  said,  with  relief  unfeigned.  "If  we 
mean  to  go  through  with  it,  Esther,  we  may  as  well  put  a 
brave  face  on  things  and  not  'anticipate  the  past.'"  (She 
had  never  been  intimate  with  the  immortal  Malaprop,  and 
she  gave  him  up  in  despair.)  "On  the  whole,  I'm  sound, 
and  we'll  take  it  for  granted  that  I  shall  survive  their  delicate 
attentions." 

His  eyes  wandered  to  the  window  and  he  sighted  a  familiar 
figure  swinging  down  the  path;  Socrates,  gravely  self-important, 
trotting  to  heel. 

"Hullo!    Here  comes  the  boy  — " 

She  heard  the  vexatious  note  of  welcome  in  his  voice  and 
drew  back  with  her  air  of  dignity  aggrieved. 

"I'll  leave  you.     I  would  only  be  de  trop." 

Halfway  to  the  door  she  turned.  "If  he  brings  that  dog  in, 
please  remind  him  that  I  dislike  dogs  in  the  house.  There  are 
marks  on  the  hall  carpet.  Other  people's  things  —  one  can't 
be  too  careful.  I've  spoken  once.  But  he  never  attends  to 
my  wishes." 


480  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

Lord  AvonTeigh  said  nothing.  He  sank  into  his  chair  -with 
an  audible  sigh  and  sat  staring  into  the  fire.  .  .  . 

Three  minutes  later  Derek  —  duly  accompanied  by  a  muddy- 
booted  Philosopher  —  entered  the  room.  This  tune  Lord 
Avonleigh  did  not  rise;  nor  did  he  guess  how  the  bitterness, 
which  his  wife  invariably  stirred  in  him,  shadowed  his  welcoming 
smile.  But  Derek  missed  no  least  indication  of  his  mood. 

"  Dad  —  what  is  it?  "  he  asked  sharply.     "  Bad  news?  " 

"Yes,  old  boy.  You  have  quick  eyes.  Sit  down.  Let  us 
get  it  over." 

Derek  set  a  small  chair  near  the  fire  and  held  out  his  hands 
to  the  blaze.  He  maintained  that  position,  while  his  father 
told  him  all  there  was  to  tell.  Only  an  occasional  movement 
of  his  lips,  or  of  the  muscles  in  his  throat,  revealed  the  pain  he 
could  not  express.  Lord  Avonleigh's  eyes  noted  and  under 
stood;  and  his  dumb,  lonely  heart  yearned  towards  this  son,  so 
long  overlooked,  so  peculiarly  his  own ;  himself  almost,  in  replica, 
but  for  an  occasional  minor  trait  that  transfused  the  whole  into 
a  fresh  personality. 

"There  is  at  least  one  consolation,"  he  concluded  in  his  even 
voice.  "I  go  straight  back  to  Avonleigh." 

Derek  nodded  in  profound  comprehension. 

"  But  isn't  it  —  the  journey  —  a  bit  of  a  risk?  " 

"If  you  were  in  my  shoes,  Derek  —  wouldn't  you  take  it?" 

"Ten  times  over." 

"Exactly.  Farrar  thinks  Mother  will  be  better  elsewhere. 
But  Aunt  Marion  goes  with  me." 

Derek  looked  round  quickly,  all  his  constraint  gone.  "Dad 
mayn't  we  come  too  —  after  the  christening  show?  Gay  is  a 
born  nurse.  She  would  love  to  help  —  in  any  way." 

Lord  Avonleigh  leant  forward  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  knee. 
"The  price  of  a  good  woman  is  above  rubies." 

"You  can  throw  in  pearls  and  diamonds,  if  it  comes  to  that," 
murmured  Derek,  smiling  at  the  fire.  "And  —  you  hate 
strangers  around." 

"I  do.  It  will  cheer  me  inexpressibly.  I  should  have 
hesitated  to  suggest  it.  You  are  still  in  the  blissful  stage." 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  481 

Derek  passed  a  hand  across  his  eyes.  "-No  more  blissful 
stage  for  me,  till  you  are  on  the  safe  side  —  of  all  this.  And 
I've  been  longing  to  take  her  there." 

His  father  sighed.     "I  wish  it  were  under  happier  auspices." 
Then  they  fell  to  talking  of  Avonleigh;  and  forgot  themselver 
and  the  Encroaching  Shadow  — 

It  was  not  till  Derek  rose  to  go,  and  Socrates  emerged  from 
under  his  knees,  that  Lord  Avonleigh  remembered  his  wife's 
parting  injunction. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  a  wicked  twinkle  in  his  eye:  " Mother 
bade  me  remind  you  that  she  disapproves  of  four-footed  phil 
osophers,  who  don't  wipe  their  boots  on  the  mat.  Other  people's 
carpets,  you  know  — !" 

Derek  looked  distressed.  "  Oh,  I'm  awfully  sorry.  I  forgot. 
May  we  bring  him  to  Avonleigh?" 

"Of  course.     My  carpets  will  be  honoured!" 

Derek  stood  silent  a  moment.  Then  —  boldly,  obeying  the 
impulse  of  his  heart  —  he  laid  a  hand  on  his  father's  shoulder, 
stooped  and  kissed  his  hair. 

Lord  Avonleigh  simply  looked  up  at  him.  " God  bless  you!" 
he  said  under  his  breath. 

And  Derek,  with  a  painful  lump  in  his  throat,  walked  quickly 
away. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Alpha  and  Omega,  sadness  ana  mirth, 
The  springing  music  and  its  wasting  breath  — 
The  fairest  things  in  life  are  Death  and  Birth, 
Far  Birth  hath,  in  itself,  the  germ  of  Death  — 
For  they  are  twain,  yet  one  —  and  Death  is  Birth. 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

LORD  AVONLEIGH  survived  the  journey.  Furthermore,  he  in 
sisted  on  surviving  a  good  many  other  satisfying  activities  over 
which  medical  science  shook  a  pessimistic  head.  For  two 
short  weeks  he  lived  and  moved  in  a  strange  exaltation  of 
spirit;  a  blessed,  intimate  reunion  with  his  own  fragment  of 
England,  that  was  fibre  of  his  fibre  —  his  hold  on  the  future, 
his  link  with  a  great  and  honourable  past.  On  the  soft  South 
coast,  bereft  of  mental  stimulus,  his  strength  had  flagged. 
Here  —  with  Derek  for  his  constant  companion,  with  plans  for 
the  future  to  inspire,  if  not  to  achieve  —  his  mind  amazingly 
renewed  its  vigour  and  defied  the  secret  protests  of  its  out 
worn  comrade  —  the  body. 

None  of  them  —  not  even  Marion  —  guessed  that  he  was 
deliberately  living  on  his  capital.  Sceptic  though  he  was,  in 
the  grain,  he  knew  unerringly  that  Farrar  had  told  him  the 
truth;  that  outside  the  circle  of  light  in  which  he  moved  — 
resolutely,  but  with  waning  strength  —  the  Encroaching 
Shadow  bided  its  time.  .  .  . 

The  clouds  had  emptied  themselves  of  snow;  and  a  spell  of 
bland  wintry  sunshine  made  many  things  possible  that  had  else 
been  sternly  vetoed.  His  daily  drive  gave  him  once  again  the 
desire  of  his  eyes  —  the  woods  and  fields  and  farms  of  Avonleigh, 
the  friendly  faces  of  his  own  people;  and  the  sincerity  of  their 
inarticulate  welcome  moved  him  to  a  point  that  bordered  on 
pain.  It  provoked  the  thought:  "When  I  am  gone,  will  all 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  483 

this  wither  away  —  the  personal  allegiance,  the  living  link  with 
the  land?" 

There  lay  the  core  of  his  tragedy  —  not  dread  of  the  Un 
known;  nor  even  the  bitter  pang  of  parting;  but  lack  of  faith  in 
the  son  wrho  would  come  after  him. 

For  this  cause,  above  all,  he  clung  to  life,  and  Avonleigh, 
with  all  the  tenacity  that  was  in  him.  Aided  by  the  faithful 
Malcolm,  he  laid  the  foundations  of  schemes  he  had  thought 
out,  in  leisure  moments,  thousands  of  miles  away.  He  made 
meticulous  enquiries  into  Karl's  work  and  saw  that  it  was 
good.  Once,  Van  came  down,  for  the  night,  armed  with  af 
fectionate  messages  from  his  mother,  who  was  laid  up  with 
her  heart  and  unfit  to  travel:  —  a  strangely  subdued  Van, 
out  of  his  element  with  Aunt  Marion  and  never  quite  at  his 
ease  with  Gay.  He  spent  a  long  afternoon  with  Lord  Avon 
leigh,  chiefly  devoted  to  local  affairs;  and  travelled  unreluc- 
tantly  back  to  Town  with  some  food  for  anxiety  in  his  mind  and 
a  twinge  of  jealousy  in  his  heart. 

That  twinge  would  have  been  sharper  had  he  guessed  that  to 
Derek  alone  —  in  these  strange  days  of  seclusion  from  the  world- 
storm  —  did  Lord  Avonleigh  express  the  deep  and  troubled 
thoughts  that  stirred  in  him,  with  a  rare  unreserve  engendered 
by  more  than  an  impulse  of  fatherly  affection  and  the  haunt 
ing  sense  of  Eternity  knocking  at  the  door. 

In  the  small  hours  of  a  sleepless  night  of  pain,  a  thought  had 
come  to  him;  as  it  were  a  crumb  of  consolation  let  fall  by  the 
Unseen  Hand  that  held  the  sword.  To  Van,  worthy  or  un 
worthy,  must  pass  the  material  heritage;  but  there  remained 
a  heritage  of  the  spirit.  His  hopes  for  the  future  of  the  race, 
his  invincible  faith  in  the  qualities  that  had  made  England  great, 
the  standard  of  true  aristocracy,  of  high  unpurchasable  service 
to  the  State  —  these  gifts  he  could  hand  on  to  the  son  in  whom 
he  detected  the  dumb,  inveterate  idealism  of  his  race;  a  quality 
no  less  British,  in  essence,  than  Van's  innate  distrust  of  ideas, 
lest  they  upset  his  mental  status  and  shift  him  out  of  his  groove. 

Derek  was  already  imbued  with  the  main  articles  of  his  own 
creed  —  for  the  individual,  the  aristocratic  standard,  in  what- 


484  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

ever  walk  of  life;  for  the  nation,  responsible  leadership  in  place 
of  the  crowd's  indeterminate  swaying  and  the  bitter  venom  of 
party  strife.  But,  could  the  boy  long  continue  to  hold  a  faith 
so  starkly  opposed  to  the  shifting,  swirling  spirit  of  these  times? 
Generations  of  Blounts  had  lived  and  died  in  it.  For  himself 
—  it  was  the  immortal  part  of  him.  He  could  not  bear  that  it 
should  perish  with  his  bones. 

Since  his  return  he  and  Derek  had  come  very  close  together, 
in  their  inarticulate  fashion.  It  would  be  an  effort  well  worth 
making  to  draw  him  closer  still.  With  his  happier  marriage 
and  the  stronger  human  strain  in  him,  he  might  yet  achieve 
those  things  that  his  father  had  missed;  might  yet  play  a  noble 
part  in  the  renascence  of  mind  and  spirit  that  springs  from  the 
material  holocaust  of  war,  as  flame  springs  from  the  ruins  of  a 
great  conflagration. 

To  a  nature  deeply  imbued  with  reserve,  the  way  of  self- 
revealing  was  hard;  but  Derek  was  quick  to  catch  the  drift  of 
his  father's  desire;  and  —  for  once  in  his  life  —  quick  to  come 
forward  halfway. 

So,  in  the  long  evenings  —  when  Lord  Avonleigh  was  ruth 
lessly  consigned  to  bed  —  Derek  would  sit  and  smoke  with  him 
for  an  hour  or  more;  would  pave  the  way  to  personal  talk  with 
a  shy  hint  or  question.  And  he  rarely  failed  of  a  reward :  — 
fragmentary  glimpses  of  his  father's  boyhood ;  of  ideals  that  had 
survived,  of  illusions  that  had  withered,  of  ambitions  unful 
filled;  glimpses  of  his  own  diffident,  searching  spirit  in  the 
father  whose  speech  and  actions  had  always  seemed  so  invin 
cibly  assured:  sadder  glimpses  —  gleaned  from  things  left  un 
said  —  of  his  mother's  curiously  blighting  effect  on  the  life  and 
character  of  a  man  whom  he  would  have  judged  singularly 
impervious  to  feminine  influences. 

But  mainly  their  talk  was  of  larger  themes.  And  through  it 
all  ran,  like  a  refrain,  his  father's  belief  in  the  responsibility  of 
the  privileged,  in  the  individual  as  the  world's  true  lever;  his 
unspoken  charge  to  the  individual  of  his  own  creation:  "I  hand 
on  the  torch  of  my  faith  to  you.  Keep  it  burning." 

Never,   while  he  lived,   would   Derek  forget   that   nightly 


THE   PROUD   FUTURE  485 

vision  of  him,  propped  on  snowy  pillows,  in  his  green  quilted 
smoking-jacket,  framed  by  the  long,  flowered  curtains  and 
throne-like  canopy  of  the  great  bed:  his  keen  pale  face  wonder 
fully  illumined  when  his  subject  caught  hold  of  him  and  all 
irksome  constraints  were  swept  away. 

On  one  such  evening  Derek  found  him  fingering  a  long  strip 
of  paper;  but  they  smoked  and  talked  for  nearly  ten  minutes 
before  his  father,  after  a  thoughtful  pause,  held  it  out  to 
him. 

"This  .  .  .  may  interest  you,"  he  said,  with  a  hesitancy  that 
was  almost  shyness.  "I  spent  a  profitable  morning  over  it, 
while  you  two  were  out." 

At  the  head  of  the  slip  was  written,  "My  Legacy  of  books 
for  Derek."  It  was  an  exhaustive  list,  mainly  historical  — 
English,  Italian,  and  French.  Derek  scanned  it  with  a  full 
heart.  Words  were  hopelessly  inadequate  — 

He  looked  up,  at  last,  and  found  there  was  really  no  need  of 
them. 

Lord  Avonleigh  said:  "I'm  glad  it  pleases  you,  old  boy." 

And  Derek  said  simply:  "I  am  overwhelmed.  I  suppose  — 
Van  won't  object?  " 

"Van  has  no  voice  in  that  matter." 

Then,  to  dispel  their  mutual  embarrassment,  he  took  the  list 
and  ticked  off  with  his  pencil  certain  favourites:  "Gardiner's 
'Charles  I,'  Lecky's  'Democracy  and  Liberty,'  Houssayeon  the 
Government  of  Venice.  Amazingly  instructive,  in  the  light  of 
recent  events.  Venice  fooled  by  the  Turks,  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  reads  exactly  like  a  forecast  of  England  and  Germany 
in  the  twentieth.  The  same  unwieldy  councils,  the  same  ir 
resolution  and  delays.  Richelieu's  'Testament  Politique.' 
Not  sufficiently  well  known.  Three  centuries  old  —  yet  his 
principles  of  Government  have  scarcely  been  bettered.  Call 
your  State  Republic,  Democracy — what  you  will  —  the  essential 
fact  remains  that  human  safety  and  progress  hang  ultimately 
on  wise  personal  direction.  It  is  the  great  lesson  the  Many 
have  still  to  learn  —  and  I  fear  their  skulls  are  thick  —  that 
they  can  only  realize  their  higher  aspirations  through  the 


486  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

guidance  and  co-operation  of  the  super-capable  few.  And  I 
say  emphatically,  the  fewer  the  better.  ..." 

He  paused,  frowning  at  his  own  weakness;  smiling  at  the 
concern  in  Derek's  eyes.  "Prophecy  is  mostly  waste  of  breath. 
But  I  will  hazard  a  guess  that  the  world's  history  for  the  next 
fifty  years  will  be  largely  determined  by  the  nation  or  nations 
that  uphold  the  true  aristocratic  principle  and  bring  forth  the 
ruler-spirit  —  the  Great  Man.  I  have  left  you  some  notes  of 
mine  on  that  subject.  Make  friends  with  Richelieu,  Derek." 

"And  then — ?"  Derek  queried.  "When  I  have  digested  all 
this.  Would  you  like  me  to  enter  public  life?  " 

"Yes  —  if  they  cleanse  the  temple  and  cast  out  the  money 
changers  and  stop  tampering  with  the  House  of  Lords.  Bad 
enough  as  it  is.  But  where  the  devil  should  we  be  now  if  it 
really  had  been  'scrapped'  in  the  day  of  ' scrappings ' ?  When 
that  struggle  is  renewed,  I  fear  Van  will  not  be  found  among  the 
'  Die-Hards ' !  He  would  vote  for  painless  extinction  rather  than 
prolong  the  effort  of  fighting  for  his  life.  And  I  verily  believe" 

—  Lord  Avonleigh  set  his  lips,  as  if  combating  a  spasm  of  pain 

—  "I  would  rise  from  my  grave  and  fight  in  his  stead  — 
Again  that  spasm  across  his  face.    He  leaned  back  breath 
ing  heavily:  and  Derek,  in  an  agony  of  fear,  summoned  his 
aunt.     She  arrived  to  find  him  white  and  shaken  and  her 
brother  in  a  dead  faint. 

"I  expect  he  has  been  overdoing  it,"  she  said,  her  face  set 
and  stern.  "Ring  up  Dr.  Farrar  at  once." 

And  Derek,  feeling  miserable  and  vaguely  guilty,  went  with 
out  a  word. 

A  week  later  he  sat  alone  over  the  fire  in  the  great  library 
Its  three  tall  windows  let  in  fugitive  rays  of  sunshine  that  glinted 
on  polished  brass  and  wood  and  laid  a  bright,  unheeded  bene 
diction  on  Derek's  bowed  head. 

It  was  a  lofty  room,  rather  severely  furnished;  but  a  human 
warmth  and  friendliness  radiated  from  the  prevailing  tone  of 
golden  brown  in  curtains  and  carpet  and  the  leather-bound 
books  that  climbed  three  walls  from  floor  to  ceiling.  There  is 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  487 

no  friendlier  colour  than  golden-brown.  It  softened  the  aus 
terity  of  Lord  Avonleigh's  room,  as  the  smile  in  his  eyes  softened 
the  austerity  of  his  face.  Because  the  room  was  imbued  with 
his  presence,  they  practically  lived  in  it  now  —  they  three,  who 
so  loved  him  and  had  come  so  near  to  losing  him,  since  the  day 
of  dread  silence  and  suspense  when,  for  nearly  two  hours,  he 
had  been  under  the  surgeon's  knife.  His  great  oak  desk  stood 
open,  deplorably  empty  and  tidy.  His  foot-muff  and  pipe- 
rack  seemed  mutely  to  ask  —  "Will  he  come  again?"  And 
Derek's  lonely  figure  occupied  the  great  chair  by  the  fire,  that 
in  far-off  days  he  used  to  call,  with  bated  breath,  'the  judgment 
throne.' 

He  was  leaning  forward,  his  head  between  his  hands,  staring 
into  the  flameless  heart  of  the  fire  that  seemed  a  blurred  smear, 
like  a  wound,  because  his  eyes  were  heavy  with  tears.  He  was 
thinking  —  thinking ;  hoping,  with  an  intensity  amounting  to  a 
prayer,  that  the  strain  of  those  muted  days  —  when  his  father's 
life  hung  by  a  thread  —  was  gone,  never  to  return.  Through 
such  days,  the  spirit,  rising  to  its  full  height,  drags  the  un 
resisting  body  in  its  wake.  Only  when  the  grip  is  relaxed,  the 
brain  looks  back  and  marvels  —  "How  did  one  live  through  it 
all?" 

This  morning  Derek  knew  how  desperately  tired  he  was,  how 
narrowly  he  had  escaped  an  almost  unbearable  loss. 

In  the  last  twenty-four  hours  matters  had  taken  a  more 
hopeful  turn.  There  had  been  refreshing  sleep;  and  to-day  a 
wonderful  rally  of  strength.  So  he  had  leisure  to  think;  to 
realize  what  Gabrielle's  mere  presence  had  been  to  him  in  those 
dark  hours,  when  he  could  see  no  light  at  all  except  the  stead 
fast  light  of  love  and  courage  in  her  eyes.  Calm,  controlled, 
dependable,  she  had  taken  her  turn  at  nursing  with  the  In 
evitable  Stranger;  had  won  Aunt  Marion's  confidence  —  and 
established  herself,  more  securely  than  ever,  in  his  father's 
heart.  In  her  own  inimitable  fashion  she  had  simply  mothered 
them  all  — 

Two  days  after  the  operation,  when  hope  was  at  the  lowest 
ebb,  Van  had  been  sent  for.  He  had  arrived  looking  bewildered 


488  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

and  wretched;  and  it  struck  Derek,  even  in  the  midst  of  his 
own  pain,  how  curiously  out  of  place  he  seemed  in  a  serious  set 
ting.  It  was  as  if  tragedy  oppressed  him,  even  while  it  hurt. 
Frankly,  his  departure  had  been  a  relief.  They  were  so  pro 
foundly  united  in  their  grief  —  those  three :  and  Van  seemed  a 
being  from  another  world.  The  day  before  yesterday  Mark 
had  come  over.  Another  sensation  altogether.  Mark,  for  all 
his  present  happiness  and  keen  joy  of  life,  was  not  out  of  his 
element  in  the  depths.  It  is  a  touchstone  of  character.  .  .  . 

The  door-handle  turned  softly.  He  started  and  looked  up. 
It  was  Gabrielle  in  her  hospital  blue:  no  colour  in  her  cheeks 
and  violet  shadows  under  her  eyes.  He  would  have  risen, 
but  her  lifted  hand  forbade:  and  the  next  moment  she  was 
beside  him,  half  reclining  on  the  bearskin,  her  head  against  his 
knee.  There  was  a  brief  silence. 

"Very  tired,  are  you,  my  darling?"  he  asked. 

His  hand,  that  rested  on  her  head,  slid  down  to  her  cheek  and 
he  found  it  wet  with  tears. 

Smothering  a  sob,  she  drew  herself  up,  stirred  the  fire  and 
looked  into  his  face.  The  flames  betrayed  him;  and  her  smile 
flashed  out. 

"Foolish  of  us!  I've  just  left  him  with  Aunt  Marion 
and  the  Morning  Post.  So  happy.  Quite  convinced  that 
America  is  going  to  justify  his  faith  in  her  and  join  hands 
with  us  at  last.  And  now  —  "  She  rose,  discarding  weariness 
and  tears.  "We  are  to  go  out  —  you  and  I.  Aunt  Marion's 
orders." 

"I'm  willing.  You  need  it,"  he  said,  tracing  with  his  finger 
tip  the  shadows  under  her  eyes.  "I  can't  have  you  knocking 
up.  There  are  others." 

"But  he  so  beautifully  prefers  it  to  be  me.  And  I'm  only 
tired;  not  knocked  up.  It's  —  Something  Else  — 

He  looked  deep  into  her  eyes  —  and  her  cheeks  were  pale  no 
longer. 

As  on  that  day  in  the  forest,  he  held  out  his  arms,  and  gathered 
her  close,  without  a  word,  without  a  kiss,  and  with  something 
of  the  same  shy  intensity  — 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  489 

His  first  words,  when  they  came,  moved  her  more  deeply 
than  any  lover's  phrase  in  the  language.  "You  must  let  me 
tell  Father.  It  will  put  new  life  into  him." 

Her  arm  stole  round  his  neck.  They  kissed  and  stood  apart 
again;  profoundly  content,  yet  still  a  little  incredulous  over  the 
simple,  primal  event  that  never  —  for  true  lovers  —  quite  loses 
its  quality  of  miracle. 

"Now  —  get  your  things  on;  and  —  if  you  really  love  me, 
you  might  look  in  on  old  Con." 

"If —  !"  She  was  gone  in  a  flash;  and  returned  reasonably 
soon  —  from  the  feminine  standpoint  —  in  a  long  fur  coat  and 
cap. 

"Did  you  see  her?"  he  asked  as  they  went  out  into  the  pale 
sunshine. 

"I  did  more  than  see  her!  She  'drew  me  into  feminine 
depths,'"  quoted  Gabrielle,  who  knew  her  Meredith  quite  as 
well  as  her  Browning.  "Where  are  we  going? " 

"The  Park  —  my  beech  tree.  I  used  to  take  the  grand  old 
chap  all  my  miseries  when  I  was  a  troublesome,  lonely  kid, 
always  in  hot  water.  Now  I  want  to  take  him  my  joy  —  both 
my  joys!"  he  added,  with  a  light  in  his  eyes  that  she  had  not 
seen  there  since  the  day  of  the  operation. 

That  evening  Lord  Avonleigh  was  sufficiently  himself  again 
to  be  unmanageable  —  a  sign  of  blessed  augury.  He  submitted, 
perforce,  to  his  after-dinner  rest;  no  company,  no  talking. 
Then,  carefully  propped  with  pillows,  he  demanded  Derek  and 
a  cigarette.  He  was  given  both,  with  a  stern  injunction  to  keep 
placid  and  avoid  argument;  for  the  strain  on  his  heart  had  been 
severe. 

"Derek  and  I  never  argue,"  he  said  gravely.  "We  find  flat 
contradiction  more  stimulating!" 

It  lifted  Marion's  tired  heart  to  hear  once  again  the  faint, 
familiar  note  of  mockery.  So  they  left  him;  and  as  the  door 
closed,  he  let  out  an  ungracious  sigh  of  relief. 

"Sit  down,  old  boy.  It's  nice  to  get  a  whiff  of  your  pipe 
again,  and  it's  good  —  just  for  an  hour  or  so  —  to  be  quit  of  the 


490  THE   STRONG  HOURS 

women.  They  are  beyond  compare.  But  —  occasionally  — 
you  understand!" 

"Rather,"  agreed  Derek,  drawing  his  chair  close  to  the  bed. 
"I  used  to  feel  that  way  badly." 

They  smoked  awhile;  Derek  surreptitiously  scrutinizing  his 
father's  face  —  the  features  sharpened  and  pale  as  a  waxen 
effigy,  the  strained  line  of  the  mouth  that  spoke  of  pain  stoically 
endured.  He  wanted  to  tell  his  news,  but  felt  absurdly  shame 
faced  over  the  simple  and  natural  prospect  of  adding  his  mite 
to  the  sum  total  of  England's  population. 

He  managed  it  at  last,  with  an  engaging  air  of  detachment  as 
if  he  were  commenting  on  the  weather. 

Lord  Avonleigh's  brows  worked  vigorously,  a  trick  of  his 
when  surprised  and  pleased. 

"Good,"  he  said,  nodding  approval  and  smiling  at  the  mix 
ture  of  awkwardness  and  unconscious  pride  in  Derek's  tone. 
"  Excellent.  And  —  very  surprising,  eh?  Queer  fellowrs,  aren't 
we?  It's  an  achievement  we  can  scarcely  escape.  Yet  we 
take  as  much  pride  in  it  as  if  we  had  conquered  a  city." 

"After  all"  —Derek  shyly  excused  himself  —  "it  means  — 
a  new  individual  ..." 

"Quite  so.  And  we  believe  in  the  individual.  It  also 
means"  he  added  on  a  deeper  note  of  feeling  —  "that,  with 
any  luck,  our  name  goes  on,  even  if  Van  fails  in  his  elementary 
duty  —  to  Avonleigh." 

It  was  not  the  first  remark  of  its  kind:  and  the  instinct  of 
brotherly  allegiance,  tugging  at  Derek's  heart,  impelled  him  to 
say  what  he  could. 

"Poor  old  Van  —  had  rather  a  bad  knock  this  summer." 

"  Turned  down?  She  wouldn't  have  him?  "  A  wicked  gleam 
of  amusement  flickered  through  Lord  Avonleigh's  surprise.  "  Is 
that  official?  D'you  know  the  lady?" 

And  Derek  saw  he  had  let  himself  in  —  also  Van. 

"  I  do."  A  pause.  "  She  —  very  oddly  —  happened  to  prefer 
me!" 

"Good  God!  Confoundedly  awkward  position."  He  mused 
awhile  on  Derek's  twofold  revelation.  Then:  "Poor  Van! 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  491 

Two  knocks  in  succession  —  and  they  have  not  been  his  daily 
bread.  If  I  feel  fit  enough  to-morrow,  we  must  wire  for  him. 
Perhaps  I  have  been  too  hard  —  failed  to  make  allowances. 
At  a  crisis  even  the  best  of  us  are  at  the  mercy  of  temperament. 
And  if  I  have  suffered  from  his,  no  doubt  he  has  suffered  from 
mine.  I  am  counting  on  you,  Derek,  to  stand  by  him  —  and 
Avonleigh.  He  won't  live  here,  if  I  know  him.  But  Malcolm 
has  promised  to  carry  on  all  I  have  most  at  heart.  Uphold 
him  as  far  as  you  can.  And  —  if  there  is  an  Afterwards  .  .  . 
be  sure  my  spirit  will  be  with  you  — " 

It  was  a  few  seconds  before  Derek  could  command  his  voice. 

"But,  Dad,"  he  said  at  last,  "you  are  going  to  carry  on  your 
self  a  long  while  yet." 

Lord  Avonleigh  shook  his  head. 

"I  may  hang  on  a  bit  because  my  spirit  clings  so  obstinately 
to  this  place  —  to  you  three,  who  have  lightened  my  hours  of 
pain,"  he  said  very  quietly.  "But  I  have  lived  my  life.  Let 
the  women  cling  to  hope,  if  it  comforts  them.  You  are  man 
enough  to  look  truth  in  the  face.  The  sands  have  run  too  low. 
Van's  reign  has  already  begun  — " 

When  the  women  came  in  to  bid  him  good-night,  Gabrielle's 
hand  was  retained  a  moment.  Then  he  drew  her  down  and 
kissed  her  cheek. 

"God  bless  you,  my  dear,"  he  said,  barely  above  his  breath. 
"You  have  made  me  very  happy."  And  she,  blushing  a  little, 
touched  his  forehead  with  her  lips  that  were  cool  and  soft  as 
rose  leaves. 

As  for  Marion  Blount  —  if  there  lurked  in  her  soul  a  tremor 
of  foreknowledge,  she  gave  no  sign.  She  understood  her  brother, 
who  had  been  her  all,  as  few  wives  come  to  understand  the  men 
they  marry. 

"Derek  has  taken  over  charge,"  he  told  her.  "And  I'm  not 
going  to  let  him  off  yet." 

Her  attempt  at  remonstrance  was  nipped  in  the  bud.  "  Don't 
fuss,  Molly.  There's  that  luckless  woman  on  duty  next  door. 
Wish  she'd  go  to  bed  too." 


492  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

"She'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Marion  in  her  best 
autocratic  manner.  "Not  too  late,  mind,"  she  added  with  a 
warning  frown  at  Derek  —  and  withdrew  from  the  field. 

Again  they  smoked  a  long  while  in  companionable  silence. 
Gabrielle,  carrying  on  the  torch  of  life,  had  set  the  thoughts  of 
both  reaching  out  towards  the  future.  Presently  their  eyes 
met  and  they  smiled. 

'"The  glory  of  going  on  —  and  still  to  be,' "  said  Lord  Avon- 
leigh,  as  it  were  answering  Derek's  thought.  "Curious  the 
store  we  set  by  it.  If  not  the  individual  —  then  the  race.  The 
last  is  the  only  form  that  we  of  little  faith  can  feel  reasonably 
sure  of."  His  gaze  searched  the  eyes  of  his  son.  "Do  you  — - 
feel  reasonably  sure  of  any  other?" 

Derek  was  silent  a  moment.  It  was  as  if  his  father  had 
reached  out  to  him  for  help ;  —  and  he  had  little  or  none  to  give. 
Only  that  strange  sensation  on  the  night  that  was  nearly  his 
last.  Difficult  to  speak  of:  yet  he  made  the  attempt;  frowning 
with  the  effort  at  self-expression. 

"Not  reasonably  sure,  perhaps;  but  —  unreasonably  so  — 
since  last  year.  One  night,  I  was  so  weak  —  I  felt  as  if  I 
couldn't  hang  together.  Part  of  me  seemed  to  be  slipping 
away  —  not  into  darkness,  but  into  a  flood  of  light  and  colour. 
Too  vague  to  explain;  but  it  was  extraordinarily  vivid  and 
—  somehow,  extraordinarily  comforting.  Of  course  it  doesn't 
amount  to  anything.  Just  an  experience.  But  it  left  —  a 
queer  kind  of  conviction.  One  felt  —  one  could  trust  —  the 
Unknown  — !" 

"Thank  you,  Derek,"  his  father  said  gravely,  and  drew  in  a 
laboured  breath.  "After  all  —  our  unreasoned  convictions  are 
the  bread  of  life.  Mercifully  I  can  boast  a  few.  I'm  afraid  I've 
taken  precious  little  pains  to  hand  them  on  to  you  two;  and 
then  I  slang  poor  old  Van  for  being  —  what  7  helped  to  make 
him!  Cultivate  your  son  as  well  as  your  garden,  Derek  —  and 
cultivate  him  early.  We  take  a  son  for  granted  —  eh?"  He 
smiled,  as  at  some  thought  of  his  own.  "I  would  give  a  great 
deal  to  see  him  —  to  know  what  sort  of  a  world  he  will  grow 
up  into." 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  493 

"An  International  paradise  —  the  soldier  an  extinct  species?" 
suggested  Derek  with  a  twinkle. 

"God  forbid!  A  World  State,  as  a  pious  aspiration,  is  all 
very  well.  But  —  in  my  opinion  —  it  is  not  practical  politics. 
For  vital  progress,  there  must  be  manifold,  individual  nations 
and  there  must  be  conflict.  One  can  trust  human  nature  for 
that.  For  the  rest,  if  it  is  true  that  nations  live  greatly  through 
the  spirits  of  their  great  dead,  our  own  million  dead  in  this  War 
are  the  best  hope  we  have  of  national  salvation.  Those  who 
have  given  all  are  redeemers,  after  their  kind  —  the  country's 
aristocracy  of  character  and  courage  — 

He  spoke  with  kindling  eye  and  quickened  breathing.  A 
famt  tinge  of  colour  crept  into  his  cheek  and  surreptitiously  he 
pressed  a  hand  against  his  side. 

"Dad  —  be  careful!"  Derek  urged,  dreading  reaction  from 
this  sudden  spurt  of  vigour,  yet  craving  all  —  and  more  — 
while  there  was  time. 

Lord  Avonleigh  frowned.  To  the  strong  man  weakness  is 
less  endurable  than  pain.  "That  stuff  —  on  the  dressing-table 

—  quick.     Thank  you  —  thank  you." 

He  sank  back  on  his  pillows,  exhausted,  but  relieved. 
"Don't  be  alarmed,  old  boy,"  he  said  with  a  wan  smile; 
for  Derek  could  not  keep  the  fear  out  of  his  eyes. 
"Shall  I  fetch  Nurse?"  he  asked. 
Lord  Avonleigh  waved  an  impatient  hand. 
"You  can  do  more  for  me  than  any  nurse  or  doctor  by  just 

—  sitting  there." 

Derek,  wholly  willing,  if  only  half  convinced,  obeyed;  and 
Lord  Avonleigh,  watching  him  with  a  curious  intentness,  lit  a 
fresh  cigarette. 

"I  must  go  slow  —  that's  all,"  he  said  in  his  natural  voice. 
"But  the  thoughts  .  .  .  come  crowding  .  .  .  now  I  have  no 
strength  to  utter  them:  thoughts  of  the  future  beating  like 
waves  on  my  brain.  And  I  must  pass  on  ...  not  knowing 
.  .  .  how  this  tremendous  affair  will  end.  War  breeds  revolu 
tion.  Will  all  the  refinements  and  nobilities  we  have  stood  for 
be  swept  overboard  by  the  loud  voice  and  the  full  purse  and  the. 


494  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

pushing  elbow?  Some  say  they  will  —  that  our  order  is  pass 
ing—  The  old  mocking  smile  gleamed  in  his  eye.  '"They 
say' — let  them  say!"  My  answer  is  Renan's  —  'Toute  civilisa 
tion  est  d'origine  aristocratique.'  A  genuine  aristocracy  of  brains 
and  breeding  is  vital  to  national  health.  The  sane  mind  for 
the  sound  body.  The  painful  question  is,  Have  we  preserved 
an  aristocracy  worthy  to  survive?  And  can  a  general  orgy  of 
kicking  over  the  traces  call  itself  Civilization?  The  War  has 
revived  duty  and  discipline  and  heroism.  But  one  fears  the 
swing  of  the  pendulum.  Should  the  worst  happen  and  the 
crowd  prevail,  much  will  hang  on  the  courageous  few  of  your 
generation—-  Think  of  me,  Derek,  and  keep  the  flag  flying." 

Again  he  took  a  deep  breath.  The  flame  of  his  spirit  was 
burning  up  all  too  fast  the  little  fuel  that  remained. 

Derek,  beset  by  dumbness,  could  only  murmur:  "I  promise," 
and  hold  out  his  hand. 

Lord  Avonleigh  grasped  it  with  surprising  force. 

"I'm  not  dogmatizing,  old  boy.  I  am  only  speaking  my 
mind  —  while  I  can  —  because  I  have  great  hopes  of  you.  I 
have  lived — I  admit  it — too  much  behind  closed  doors.  I  have 
held  aloof  from  public  life  because  of  my  distaste  for  the  mere 
squabble  of  personalities,  the  vulgar  scramble  for  place  and 
power.  I  admit  it  is  an  aristocratic  weakness  —  that  tend 
ency  to  stand  aside  and  shrug.  The  streak  is  not  so  strong  in 
you.  Modified,  perhaps,  by  the  social  conscience  of  young 
Oxford !  And  as  I  said,  you  were  not  afraid  to  soil  your  dream 
with  the  mud  of  life  — 

"All  the  same,"  Derek  found  courage  to  say,  "you  don't 
know  how  often  I  have  repented  —  regretted  the  chance  I  lost 
of  working  with  you  —  running  after  vague  abstractions  — 
neglecting  the  duty  —  and  privilege  on  my  doorstep  — 

For  reward,  he  had  his  father's  kindest  smile;  but  the  spurious 
spurt  of  vigour  was  gone. 

"Well,  don't  do  any  more  repenting  —  or  regretting.  It's 
misplaced  energy  at  the  best.  I  confess  I  was  disappointed  at 
the  time.  But  it  opened  my  eyes  to  you  —  and  to  other  things. 
And  —  in  the  end  I  approved  ...  I  understood  ..." 


THE  PROUD   FUTURE  495 

His  voice  trailed  off;  and  he  lay  quiet,  contemplating  the 
steadfast  profile  of  the  son  who  had  not  failed  him.  The  sands 
were  running  very  low.  Cold  fingers  were  stealing  round  his 
heart.  In  his  utter  weakness,  the  pain  of  parting  smote  him 
like  a  physical  pang.  Too  well  he  understood  the  boy's  silence. 
It  stirred  the  deepest  wells  of  feeling;  and  moved  him  to  at 
tempt  some  inadequate  expression  of  the  love  he  bore  him. 

One  of  Derek's  hands  rested  on  the  quilt.  Lord  Avonleigh 
—  after  an  instant  of  painful  hesitation  —  enclosed  it  in  his  own. 
"I  am  grateful  to  you  and  .  .  .  proud  of  you  .  .  .  my  son!" 
was  all  he  managed  to  say. 

But,  for  Derek,  it  was  everything.  Tears  blinded  him.  He 
could  only  return  the  slow,  strong  pressure  of  his  father's 
hand. 

For  both,  the  moment  was  weighted  with  foreknowledge  of  the 
end;  and,  in  Lord  Avonleigh's  brain,  something  seemed  to  snap. 
The  master  will  —  that  had  held  body  and  soul  together  till  all 
was  said  —  relaxed  its  grip.  His  head  dropped  limply  back 
on  the  pillow.  His  lips  moved  —  but  no  sound  came  — 

Derek's  dumbness  fled.  "Father  —  Father!"  he  cried,  fear 
and  entreaty  in  his  low  tone. 

No  response  from  the  still  face.  Mechanically  he  thought: 
"  Something  must  be  done ! "  He  tried  to  release  his  hand.  The 
thin  fingers  closed  on  it  with  a  convulsive  grip  that  struck  a 
chill  all  through  him.  The  friendly,  human  quality  of  a  few 
minutes  ago  was  gone  .  .  . 

Hurriedly  he  slipped  his  free  hand  under  the  coat.  In  the 
region  of  the  heart  no  flutter  —  none  in  the  pulse;  and  over 
the  still  face  crept  the  unnamable  change  —  the  dignity,  the 
serenity;  as  if  an  angel's  wing  in  passing  had  smoothed  away  all 
lines  of  pain  and  strain  — 

And  Derek  knew  that  he  was  alone.  Van's  reign  had  in 
deed  begun  — 

Useless  to  call  the  others.  They,  too,  were  tired.  They 
could  do  nothing.  And  he  could  not  endure  another  presence. 
Nor  could  he  bear  forcibly  to  withdraw  his  hand.  Impossible 
to  shift  his  gaze  from  the  waxen  stillness  of  the  face  on  the 


496  THE  STRONG  HOURS 

pillow  —  the  high  nobility  of  the  brow,  the  dominant  nose, 
with  its  sensitive  nostril,  the  strong  indent  between  under-lip 
and  chin.  There  he  was.  And  yet  —  he  was  not. 

For  a  moment,  incredulity  numbed  sensation.    Later  on  — 
the  pain  would  begin  — 

Tears  that  had  grown  cold  on  his  lashes  trickled  slowly  down 
his  cheeks.  Stooping,  he  kissed  his  father's  forehead.  It  had 
the  faint  warmth  of  life;  and,  at  the  contact,  realization  smote 
him.  With  a  choking  sob,  he  dropped  on  his  knees  and  bowed 
his  head  on  the  hand  locked  in  his  own  — 

For  a  timeless  spell  he  knelt  thus:  motionless,  as  the  dead, 
but  for  the  long-drawn  breaths  that  shuddered  through  him. 
Thoughts  and  feelings  drifted  by,  unheeded,  and  merged  in  the 
overwhelming  ironic  sense  of  loss  .  .  . 

And  suddenly,  like  a  star  in  darkness,  gleamed  the  face  of 
Gabrielle  with  the  light  of  her  great  news  in  her  eyes.  No 
cessation  anywhere  —  no  break  in  the  endless  chain.  His 
father's  spirit  drifting  into  the  infinite:  and  emerging  unseen, 
from  the  infinite,  the  new  spark  of  life  that  would  one  day  be 
his  son. 

'The  glory  of  going  on  —  and  still  to  be.'  The  ear  of  his 
brain  caught  the  very  tones  of  his  father's  voice.  But,  in  the 
succession  of  endless  to-morrows,  the  clear  memory  of  it  would 
fade,  though  every  word  spoken  in  this  last  hour  remained 
stamped  upon  his  heart.  The  scales  of  his  being  hung  poised, 
as  it  were,  between  the  sense  of  birth  and  the  sense  of  death: 
grief,  strangely  shot  through  with  joy;  joy,  darkly  shadowed 
with  grief.  Confused  longings  and  aspirations  surged  through 
him,  wave  on  wave;  soared  almost  to  the  region  of  prayer  .  .  . 

The  utter  stillness  seemed  stealthily  to  deepen  and  envelop 
him.  His  brain  became  acutely  sensitive  to  the  ceaseless 
whisper  of  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece,  the  intermittent  whis 
per  of  loosened  coals  in  the  grate. 

Strangely,  imperceptibly  the  stillness,  that  was  mere  quiet, 
blossomed  into  the  stillness  of  a  Hidden  Reality.  Though 
his  body  knelt  there,  desolate,  Something  told  him  he  was 
not  alone.  A  mere  breath,  it  seemed,  would  dissolve  the  veil 


THE  PROUD  FUTURE  497 

that  withheld  his  eyes  from  seeing,  his  ears  from  hearing.    But 
the  veil  was  not  dissolved  .  .  . 

Only  there  stole  into  his  mind  a  deep,  commanding  sense  of 
some  Inner  Stability  that  endured  through  all  the  striving, 
evolving  forms  of  life;  something  independent  of  the  material 
envelope,  informing  it,  breaking  through  it  into  ever  new 
marvels  of  self-expression:  the  symbols  and  shapes  eternally 
changing;  the  Inner  Essence  eternally  pressing  outward  and 
upward  —  'the  glory  of  going  on  —  and  still  to  be  — ' 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U  .  S   .  A 


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SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

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